


Gilded Fates

by Foreverwithoutyou



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Marauder Era - Fandom
Genre: Fantasy, Harry Potter - Freeform, Love, Magic, Multi, Romance, Thriller, marauder era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foreverwithoutyou/pseuds/Foreverwithoutyou
Summary: Born into an exceptionally normal family; Primrose Dursley discovers a fate she would never have imagined when she receives an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. No sooner does Primrose realise her life was never as it seemed. A long series of manipulations and tribulations; Primrose Dursley finds herself presented with a choice. A choice to join a rising war as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix and use her rare gift of nature and druidry for the greater good. Drawn into a life of turmoil and hatred, Primrose realises choices are the most powerful tool one can possess.
Relationships: Own character/Blaise Zabini, Own character/draco malfoy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Little Authors note - 
> 
> This is my first time using Ao3; I usually use a different fan fic sight, so I think it’s best to say I’ve not the slightest idea how to use this site, but here I am. Anyhow, this is a story concept I bore a long time ago, but haven’t had the writing skill to execute it so it reaches it’s full potential. I think nows the time. 
> 
> It’s semi canon/mostly canon? Centred around my own character. I really hope to do this justice, but it is the first time writing anything that’s a bit out there (fan fic wise). So lmk questions if you have any! Depending on the success of this story I’ll try update every other day.

**_1980_**

Mr and Mrs Dursley were the most ordinary people you’d ever meet. The last people you’d expect to be caught up in anything strange or mysterious. That sort of nonsense just didn’t slip into their exceedingly normal lifestyle; especially since Petunia had been running from that nonsense for as long as she could remember. 

After a childhood compromised by magic, Petunia Evans dreamed of nothing more than a _normal_ life. For the entirety of her childhood, Petunia had been forced into the shadows of her witch sister. How proud Mr and Mrs Evans were to have a witch in the family, so proud that they allowed Lily Evans to flounce off to a train wreck of a school in the Scottish Highlands. Left behind, Petunia wished to be away from it all. Her hometown of Cokeworth was haunted for her. Haunted by magic and a sister who’d abandoned her for it. Magic left its stains. It stained her home, stained the relationship with her sister, it stained Petunia. Everywhere she went, she saw it. Magic hidden in places she’d never have noticed before Lily. Oh, how she wanted to escape. 

And escape she did. The first chance she got, Petunia whisked herself away to London for a typing course. Oh, how different London was. Such a city, large enough to hide any magic flowing through it’s streets and large enough to obtain the normality Petunia yearned for. A life in London was every bit of ordinary Petunia wished for and it only got better when a young, junior executive, Vernon Dursley strolled through the doors of her work. Now, there was a man whose complete ordinariness struck Petunia. A career man. A man with narrow morals and values. Who certainly hadn’t an ounce of magic in him. Oh yes, he was fantastic. It was no surprise to Petunia when Vernon got down on his knee in the middle of his mother’s sitting room. Oh, such a scene, such a memory; never had Vernon met a women like Petunia, no greater joy could be bestowed on him if she was his bride. Petunia sobbed, of course, she agreed. How could she not? This was the ordinary life she’d dreamt of. 

Nothing could compare to the moment of her proposal; only one and that was on a date to the fish and chip shop. Petunia had ran the conversation in her mind ten fold. And never could she have expected Vernon’s reaction when she clued him in about her freakish witch sister and her no good wizard boyfriend. Again, Petunia cried when Vernon assured her he wouldn’t hold such a thing over her. By the end of that year the pair were wed and settled in the most ordinary town of Little Whinging, Surrey. A normal life Petunia had gained for herself. With next to no traces of her freak sister and her freakier husband. How far she had come from that girl stuck in the shadow of magic; now a mother to a set of beautiful fraternal twins, stay at home mother and wife to the director of Grunning’s drill company. So, you can imagine Petunia’s reaction the first time she watched her daughter do magic. 

Nearly one and strapped into brand spanking new high chairs; twins, Dudley and Primrose Dursley were indulging in a sloppy bowl of mashed banana porridge. Watching them with awe, Petunia and sister-in-law Marge, couldn’t quite take their eyes off them. They were, of course, the loveliest set of babies you could ever meet. No other children compared to Petunia’s. The only thing extraordinary about them was their ability to be so perfect! 

“Ha! Look at them go,” Marge trumped fondly. “Oh, what’s this then,” she yelped, waving a beefy hand in front of baby Primrose’s face. Not for the first time, Primrose Dursley had slumped in her chair - eyes wide and unmoving, a toothy smile tickling at rosy cheeks. Petunia sounded a shrill and rather forced laugh. 

“Little food coma, this little lady can eat!” 

Unconvinced, Marge waved again. “There’s lights on, but there’s no one home. Say, does she do this often?” Shuffling over, Petunia shook her head. A few quick snaps of her fingers and Primrose was back to earth, blinking slowly before her face crumpled and a wail of a cry sounded. “Odd,” Marge said decidedly. “Perhaps you should get her into a doctor, ‘Tunia. Better safe than sorry, I always say.” 

Barely able to compose herself, Petunia whimpered, cradling the crying tot in her arms. How many times had this happened before? Seven, she could place off the top of her head. How many more times would it take for Petunia to address the issue? Marge was absolutely right - there was something odd about Primrose Dursley - but it was nothing a doctor could fix. Petunia knew that much when she watched the tot levitate a teddy just out of young Dudley Dursley’s reach until he cried and she rolled over laughing. There was magic in that girl and the thought terrified Petunia. 

Magic left stains. It stained Lily and she’d wound up dead because of it. Petunia was stained by association; there was no escaping magic and now Primrose was stained too. A stain she’d never be able to run from like her mother did.

**_ 1984 _ **

Magic had found its way into Petunia Dursley’s home long before Harry Potter arrived on her doorstep one Halloween night. A letter stuffed into the blanket he’d been swaddled in. The Evan’s sisters were long since estranged, but the contents of that letter brought a heartbreak Petunia never recovered from. A murder had taken place, two in fact, the Potter’s had been killed in their own home. Tracked down by a Dark Wizard and murdered. Against all odds their son, Harry Potter, had survived with nothing more than a lightning shaped scar across his forehead. Again, Petunia Dursley found herself drowning in magic. 

Non-negotiable was the placement of her nephew. Petunia was beginning to drown in magic and she was helplessly outnumbered by children. Three to one, there was no competition. She was going under and there was nothing to do, but struggle to stay afloat. As the three children grew, the waves only got bigger. Some days, Petunia would be completely under the water. Struggling for breath, struggling for a way out, struggling to find the normal life she had worked so hard for. It would have been almost unbearable if it wasn’t for her twins. 

Their differences so vast, it was barely comprehensible that they’d been birthed in the same batch. Strong tempered, Dudley, who could throw a fit larger than any child she’d ever met; but his smile was second to none. Lovely, little Primrose, among all the strangeness of glassy eyes and night terrors, she was a beauty beyond compare. Petunia was forever receiving compliments about her blonde headed twins and their likeness she ceased to see. And then there was Harry. A runty little boy with the most captivating green eyes; the eyes that drew Petunia into a memory each time they caught her own. 

Barely five years old and Petunia was beginning to worry. She was no stranger to worrying. Petunia had worried the moment she found out she was expecting - _would there be a heartbeat at the ultrasound? Twins?! How could there be two babies - how could one women manage two babies! Are they feeding well enough? Are they growing as they should be? Had they slept too long? -_ and ever since the worries grew. There wasn’t a day Petunia hadn’t worried. But Petunia had never felt worry like the worry she felt for Primrose. 

For years, Petunia’s reality was watching her daughter for signs of magic and putting a stop to it when it inevitably occurred. But this was no magic. This was nothing like the things Harry made happen; nothing like the things Lily had done. It was entirely different. For years Petunia had been forced to watch an absent child, unable to do anything, but snap her fingers until bright eyed Primrose returned to earth. Forced to listen to her screams when she came crashing back to reality. Forced to watch as Primrose’s nose bled with such a ferocity that Petunia believed there’d be no blood left once it ceased to flow. Forced to wake her from fitful nightmares that left Primrose writhing and squealing, tearing at her pyjamas until her nails bled. And Petunia was forced to listen to what could only be described as vivid hallucinations from a child’s mouth; how could a girl who’d never experienced an ounce of make believe in her life, produce such stories?

The day came when Petunia had reached her wits end. She demanded that Vernon take them to a private doctor. The private doctors could only be described as a place that rainbows came to die. The walls were washed with the palest shade of every colour you could imagine. Wooden toys littered a carpeted area. Pamphlets describing illnesses and conditions, Petunia had never heard of, lined the walls. And suddenly, she felt very aware that she was in the wrong place. What would the doctors diagnose Primrose with? They couldn’t possibly diagnose the child as a witch. 

As soon as the meeting began, Petunia was entirely convinced she had came to the wrong place; especially when the doctor began throwing words like, _‘absence seizures’, ‘anxiety disorder’, ‘night terrors’_ around. Petunia could barely manage a look at Vernon, who was positively seething at the idea. The narrow path of the mans mind was what attracted Petunia in the first place; now she was beginning to think it wasn’t such a positive trait.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” the Doctor had said with a large toothy grin. Clearly she hadn’t warranted a reply because she spoke on, “No one ever wants to hear that their child is struggling mentally. If medicated in the right way, Primrose can lead a relatively normal life. Especially since we’ve caught it early. She’s a lovely girl, truly, you’ve done a wonderful job, Mrs. Dursley. Especially juggling three children so close in age - I applaud you.” 

Mr and Mrs Dursley couldn’t well argue with the Doctor who posed such positive points. The promise of a full nights sleep was a particular winner. So, the family left in possession of a rather large paper bag filled to the brim with medications promised to induce sleep, reduce nervous episodes and engrain Primrose in reality. Nevertheless, Vernon Dursley found something to grumble about during the drive home; how such idiots got into medicine, he didn’t know. They should expect a letter from his lawyers. The fools would be sorry, projecting their nonsense ‘mental health’ codswallop onto his daughter. Their sorry arses were going to be sued alright, they’d never work in this town again. 

Six months later and there wasn’t a reason to sue. Dosed on so many medications it was sure to have Primrose rattling as she walked; nightmares were a distant memory, no more tea towels were stained with nosebleeds. There was no more chattering of nonsensical happenings; no more snake men creeping into her dreams, no more wandering the night as a serpent, or flying the heavens as an eagle, no more gibberish about war, bloodshed and fiery sparking sticks. It was gone. Doctors described it as a medical miracle. Petunia knew better; she had always known. Somehow, she had always sensed it; the moment Primrose was placed into her arms as a tiny wriggling newborn. Her daughter was cursed with the one thing she’d tried so hard to escape from; magic. 

**_ 1987 _ **

Soapy water had snuck its way into the rubber marigolds, soaking Petunia’s hands, with a jerk of movement she pulled her hands from the kitchen sink, peeling the gloves from her hands she dried them hurriedly on the tea towel. All the while keeping her eyes fixed on her daughter; she’d been watching Primrose and Harry in the garden.

Petunia never much approved of Primrose and Harry’s close bond. They were practically inseparable, you’d think they were twins if it wasn’t for their immediate differences. Harry, a runty boy, with russet reddish-brown skin that indicated at a dual heritage. Whereas Primrose, was as beige as you could get; honey blonde and fair skinned. The first look at the two it was obvious they weren’t the twins Petunia spoke so fondly off, but the odd balls of the family. Even so, the pair may as well be twins. They were never one without the other and wherever they went, trouble followed. Always the same strange happenings that neither of them could explain. Ending up on the school kitchen roof when they swore blind they’d only jumped behind the kitchen bins. Primrose’s bike flying off the skate park ramps in a way no child’s bike could have done, especially when being rode by a tiny seven year old. Mysterious injuries taking down football players who’d got a little too cocky for Primrose’s liking. The list of strangeness could go on. 

To anyone else watching the children would have looked as innocent as ever, sat cross legged in the flush grass throwing their heads back with laughter. Petunia knew better though. So, she always watched them, waiting for any sign of... magic. From the kitchen window she had a perfect view of Primrose - her heart shaped face and wide kaleidoscopic eyes, never the same colour for long, puffy pink lips and rosy cheeks. She was like her mother. With her golden hair and chattery ways; always seemingly well put together for a young child, graceful and lithe even when she was running at high speed to tackle her brother Dudley, who was almost twice her size. But Petunia was always reminded of her sister when she watched her daughter. Primrose had the same spirit - a wild sense of freedom with no second thought for any consequences. She had no filter when it came to letting her mouth loose, always standing up to bullies; and there’d been a fair share. These things warmed Petunia’s heart, it was comforting to know that Primrose was everything Petunia had wanted to be as a child. 

The children were just talking, telling high tales as they always did. Petunia tried to convince herself at least. Yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, tingles fluttering up her bare forearms. And then she saw it as the children linked hands and Primrose got the distant look in her eye. Marge’s voice rang distantly in Petunia’s mind: _oh, there’s lights on, but there’s no one home._ It had been years. Hadn’t it? The absence seizures had been quenched by the medication. How could they be back and so suddenly too? Petunia was overturned. There’d always been magic, there was nothing Petunia could do for the levitation, or other strange happenings, but this - this had been under control. That horrid boy, it was his _fault._

“Turn it down Duddykins,” Petunia called to Dudley, the eldest of the Dursley children. He was lounged in the sun room watching one of his favourite programmes. With a large sigh Dudley ignored his mother, punching a chubby finger into the plus button on the television remote, cranking the volume even higher. Petunia ignored him as she made her way towards the back door and out onto the slate grey patio, craning her neck to keep Primrose in perfect view. The grass began shifting beneath Primrose’s legs despite the lack of breeze, the gravel began to vibrate. Blissfully oblivious, the children were in their own worlds, far away from any reality Petunia knew. Harry was laughing, his mouth moving as it sounded the word ‘wow’. Primrose, however, was as distant as ever. Her face slack and her eyes unmoving as if she were in another world entirely. 

A sudden squawk from a bird startled Petunia, glaring at the brown lump perched on the fence, she turned back to Primrose, calling her name. A strangled gasp choked at Primrose’s hands and suddenly she was back with her mother. Dropping Harry’s hand, she blinked the glossiness away. Harry laughed loudly, a merciless sound; he’d did this to her. It had been so long and now he was bringing it back. The careless smile melted as Harry spotted Petunia’s mortified expression. 

“Primmy, here now - time to come inside.” Despite the rasp of panic in her chest, Petunia hoped her voice wasn’t as shaky as she felt. 

That evening when the children were asleep, Petunia sat alone in the lounge. How many years had it been since an absence had occurred? Too many that Petunia had stopped counting and began hoping. But she knew, she knew too well what was happening. Twirling a biro pen between forefinger and thumb, noticing a small chip in the dusty pink nail polish - vowing to amend the polish in the morning - she finally placed the pen to paper and wrote a letter she swore she would never write, asking for advice from the very people she hated. And then she left the folded paper in its crisp envelope, no stamp and barely an eligible address, on the window ledge outside, where it would later be swiped by a passing tawny owl and flown up the country to Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardy. 

_**1991** _

“I’m not taking them, Mum. I’ve told you they make my brain all fuzzy. Daddy, tell her. Tell her I don’t need these flipping tablets!”

It was a typical morning at number 4 Privet Drive. The television was blaring, Dudley, the largest of the three children, was slumped over his bacon and eggs chewing loudly whilst thrashing his head trying to gain a better look at the screen. This was proving hard to do since his sister was kneeling on a kitchen chair blocking most of the screen from his beady view, yelling about the daily medication she had to take. Vernon Dursley, a beefy man built like his son, grunted from behind the pages of his newspaper, a pair of beady eyes appearing over the top twinkling with amusement. “Now, Primmy, listen to your mother.” 

Primrose huffed loudly, turning onto Petunia who was sat across the table and beside Dudley. Petunia raised a pair of thinly pencilled eyebrows, through pursed lips Primrose could see a gather of a triumphant smirk tugging at the corners of Petunia’s lips. Primrose narrowed her eyes, scowling down at her mother. “Come on now, Primmykins,” Petunia said through a sickly sweet tone, tapping the table as she raised a tumbler of water, suggesting that Primrose should step down and take the medication. However, it was obvious Primrose was no closer to giving in. 

“Why should I?” Primrose snuffed, scrunching her nose until her face took an unflattering angle. 

“Because we’ll send your birthday presents back, starting with that camera,” Vernon said with a chuckle and a firm nod at the bubblegum pink cine camera hanging from Primrose’s neck. Upon turning to her father, facing him down with a crumpled expression, she decided it wasn’t a risk she was willing to take. Glaring down at the colourful pills laying harmlessly in the saucer before her, Primrose took a breath before snatching them up and shoving them into her open mouth. Petunia sighed with satisfaction, thankful that a tantrum was avoided. 

Primrose turned grinning at Harry who sat silently beside her. His eyes darting between his aunt, uncle and cousin. Harry was more than used to these occurrences, as they happened every morning at breakfast time; but he knew all too well what happened when Primrose took the tablets she hated, she’d merely cough them up later and flush them down the toilet. 

He had caught her one morning last week, Primrose insisted she had no idea how she’d managed to cough up the tablets so long after swallowing them, but went on to tell Harry that for almost a fortnight she would take them at morning time and cough them up later on. Harry wondered why she went through the trouble of arguing every morning if she could spit them up later. There would be no point in asking, Harry thought, Primrose would only laugh and say it’s fun to tease her mother. Harry disagreed. Primrose had never really gotten any discipline from Aunt Petunia, whereas Harry was always being punished. Even if it wasn’t his fault.


	2. Revelations

August, 1991

Whoever this was standing in the mirror didn’t - couldn’t possibly - reflect the girl that was there only four weeks ago. Newly eleven, twirling in a layered pink dress and new kitten heels, snapping pictures of a her smiling face as it looked back at her. No, this girl was entirely different. She wore long dark robes, a white button up shirt, a black tie and strangest of all, a pointed witches hat. The sort of dress up that had never been allowed at the Dursley’s house, even for Halloween night. ‘Dressing as a witch is disrespectful and certainly not lady like’ her mother would scold and Primrose, although slitghtly abashed, would agree. 

This new attire though was no costume, even though Primrose felt quite silly wearing it, it was her new school uniform. One week ago she’d received a letter that made her parents go absolutely doolally. Never in her life had her parents spoke to her the way they had on that day and those to come after it. Since then the three of them - her parents and twin brother - had been tiptoeing around both herself and Harry. Primrose wasn’t surprised of course, she’d felt that way too, but she couldn’t exactly avoid herself. It was terrifying the way they’d reacted once they read she was a witch, the screaming and disparity hadn’t ever really stopped since she returned home from buying school supplies in London with Harry at her side. 

Staring at this new reflection, Primrose was blissfully unaware of the bedroom door opening. “You look very smart.” Came the soft voice of her mother, who stood tentatively in the doorway. Flinching at the sudden sound, Primrose didn’t turn, rather raised her eyes to meet her mothers through the reflection in the glass. She looked as she always did, tall and lithe, blonde hair swirled into a gracious bun at the back of her head. A flowery apron cinched at her waist; an indication that Petunia was cooking out of boredom or distraction, Primrose was inclined to presume it was the latter. 

When Primrose didn’t reply Petunia edged slowly into the bedroom. Silently wishing that her mother would say something else as she was at a total loss of how to speak to her anymore. Her stomach clenched and twisted rising a lot of unfamiliar feelings. Mostly apprehension, something Primrose has never had much experience with, being a self assured and becoming young lady. A moment of hesitation and Primrose finally spoke, “Does Daddy hate me?” A question she immediately regretted after seeing her mothers face. 

“Of course not, lovey.” Petunia pressed her lips into a thin line, taking a short breath before adding hastily: “and neither do I, for that matter.” Primrose wasn’t convinced. It was only the evening before that she overheard her parents argue over the dreaded school for witches; all the while Primrose sat huddled against the banister, clinging to Harry, who had been her only comfort since they’d discovered their magic. 

“I don’t have to go...” Primrose trailed off, finally turning away from the mirror and towards her mother. Petunia had finally made it into the bedroom and was busying herself folding a throw blanket that had been left traipsed on the carpet. The space between replies left room for more apprehension to grow, leaving Primrose’s stomach to flutter uneasily. 

“You have to go, Primmy.” Petunia sat with her knees flush and poised on the ottoman seat along the end of the bed, patting the space next to her. Primrose wasted no time in sitting. This was the most conversation she’d had about her being a witch since Hagrid, the games keeper of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had intruded the shack the Dursley’s had hid away in. The Dursley’s had been running from letters since two had innocently flown threw the letter box one morning; each addressed to Harry Potter and Primrose Dursley, accordingly and written in the very same emerald ink hand. The pair barely had a moment to look at the address; let alone read the contents because the letters were instantaneously snatched away by Mr. Dursley. The course of events following that day wouldn’t quite leave Primrose Dursley the same. She saw a very different side to her doting parents, a side she never wanted to experience again.

“You knew I was a witch,” Primrose said, not in an accusatory way, but just a statement. One that had caused many sleepless nights. Another breath rose in her mothers chest. 

“Growing up my sister - your aunt Lily - she had strange things happen around her too. And when the same things started to happen to - well I was terrified, to put it bluntly.” Primrose sat silently, looking up into her mothers face as she spoke. She’d never heard about her aunt Lily before this, it was common knowledge in the Dursley household that Petunia’s relationship with her sister had been more than strained. And then she and her no good husband had gotten into a car crash leaving them dead in a ditch and Harry in the Dursley’s care. 

“I didn’t know what to do... especially when you got poorly.” 

“But... I can’t even remember that... and Harry’s never been poorly, has he?” Petunia shook her head, her lips pursing in a grave line. 

Again Petunia didn’t answer Primrose’s question directly, instead going onto explain something she had kept to herself for almost as long as Primrose had been living. “You’re different to Harry...” Petunia’s chest rose in a heaving breath, as she forced herself to speak on, “A lot of years ago I wrote a letter to that Mr Dumbledore man. He told me many things that I didn’t understand, but one thing was clear, if you didn’t learn to control your... magic,” Petunia paused again, struggling over the word ‘magic’ as if it choked her completely, “-it could lead to dangerous things... it could hurt you. So, no. No matter what your Father has to say about it, you absolutely have to go... even if it means-” The sentence was left to hang ominously in the air. What she wanted to say was that she was frightened. Frightened that she would lose her daughter to the world that took her sister. 

Primrose blinked slowly, her eyes shining. Petunia tucked a piece of dark blonde hair behind Primrose’s ear, running her fingertips delicately down the side of her face, before smiling softly and placing a kiss onto her forehead. Primrose watched as her mother rose making her way to the door, “I’m proud of you, Primmykins. Always remember that,” Petunia said so softly, Primrose almost didn’t hear her. Once her mother had left Primrose was forced to swallow the lump in her throat. 

That night Primrose lay in bed shuffling restlessly, before giving in on her search for sleep entirely and rolling onto her back to stare at a slice of moonlight streaking through the gap in her curtains. Like every night since she’d gotten her Hogwarts letter Primrose couldn’t sleep. She was especially restless since her trip to Diagon Alley, the magical wizard it village hidden behind a crooked old pub, with Hagrid the games keeper and Harry. 

It was a strange - albeit wonderful - place, Diagon Alley; its twisting cobblestone streets and shops that smelled like rotten eggs and over cooked cabbage; the sort of scent that would stay with a person forever, it certainly hadn’t left Primrose’s nose. And Gringotts with its pearly white pillars and shimmering glass roof, and Madam Malkins, the only clothes shop Primrose had seen on the Alley, the shop sold some god awful robes Primrose hoped she’d never be forced to wear. It was all a bit daunting stepping into that world, when she’d spent as long as she could remember trying to convince herself that no magic could ever exist, because well it wasn’t possible - her father had told her so. All this time he knew. Both of her parents had known it was perfectly possible, yet they’d kept that from her. Going as far as to ban any mention of magic and folklore from their household. Now that Primrose knew magic was real, it was a relief. It gave her a solid explanation for those weird things that happened around her and the reason she’d never had many friends growing up. 

Despite the relief and the excitement she felt, Primrose couldn’t stop thinking about the pale faced blonde boy in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All occasions. He was the first wizard child she’d met (other than Harry, of course) and she was sorely disappointed. The boy, she hadn’t caught his name, nor did she have any reason to ask him as he had come off rather rude; had some very strong opinions on her kind.

I really don’t think they should let that other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same. Is what he’d said and it was now daunting on Primrose just how different she’d be at Hogwarts. Even if Hagrid had assured her that there would be plenty of ‘muggle borns’ who had every right to be at Hogwarts; she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something odd about her. Now her mother had confirmed her suspicions, she was different. And that was just a little too much for Primrose to handle right then. 

Not long after midnight Primrose dosed into a fitful and restless sleep, conjuring up dreams that she would not remember come morning. Each floating with images of a man with glowing red eyes and menacing snake features. The same man who’d haunted many of her dreams as young child and the same one who hadn’t returned since Primrose had shook hands with a stuttering young man in the Leaky Cauldron.

Four long weeks later Primrose was packing a trunk with as many possessions as she thought fit to take to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was, undeniably, shocked that the trunk, although large, could fit as much as it currently held. Though Primrose presumed it must be some sort of spell and she was thankful, since she had strong separation anxiety when it came to her belongings. Once finished Primrose snapped the trunk shut and took herself off down the hall and into Harry’s new bedroom. Harry had been moved from the cupboard under the stairs and into the smallest bedroom when Privet Drive had started to receive an abundance of specifically addressed letters. 

“Hey, Harry,” Primrose called as she knocked and slid open the door. Harry looked up from the rickety bed, greeting Primrose with a toothy grin. “I see you’ve taken my advise,” she joked with a tantalising smile. Harry was sat cross legged looking interestingly at a textbook for school. “Well, so sorry to interrupt, but we should really go ask Dad for a lift tomorrow.” It was something the pair had been avoiding since they’d noticed the train for Hogwarts would be departing from Kingscross Station and they had no way of getting to London. Sensibly, Primrose had put aside twenty pounds of her birthday money in case they had to catch the train; but she would have preferred a lift, rather than waking at the crack of dawn to ensure they’d arrive in London on time. 

Harry grimaced, placing a marker in his book before shutting it with a snap, he nodded wafting his hands as if plucking up courage. An act Primrose approved of, Vernon Dursley had been more than fastidious these days, even where Primrose was concerned. Once the apple of her fathers eye, now she was an embodiment of the elements Vernon had grown to hate; even though she hadn’t really changed at all. The pair made their way down the stairs, shoulders brushing and hands wringing with tension. “Right, he’ll be watching his show, so we’ll wait for the adverts and then you can just go in and ask,” Primrose delivered delicately as they came to a stop outside the living room door. The look Harry sprang her was disheartening.

”Why do I have to ask?” He whispered incredulously. 

“Because I’ve shotgunned,” Primrose concurred with a quick smirk, Harry opened his mouth to retaliate with the fact that Primrose had done nothing of the sort. “Shotgun not me,” Primrose gushed cutting any retaliation Harry had building, off. Harry huffed indignantly, but with respect to the shotgun rule, he nodded and pushed the living room door open. Leaving Primrose trailing behind with a triumphant smirk. 

Thankfully, Vernon was in a somewhat pleasant mood that evening and he agreed to give them a lift, only because he was driving to London to take Dudley to the doctors. Dudley, bless his soul, had had an unfortunate incident with Hagrids magical pink umbrella resulting in a curling pigs tale protruding from his rear end. Primrose had thought it was funny at first, until Dudley began looking at her with fear in his eyes every time they were in the same room. This alone was enough to cloak any feelings of mirth with one of guilt and apprehension.


	3. Square one

September, 1991

Since stepping into the world of magic, Primrose had felt a dual sense of acceptance and worry. The wizarding world was a polar opposite to her home life; a place where normality was a virtue and alongside Dudley, she was the centre of attention. It was clear since her entry into the Leaky Cauldron; a rickety old wizarding pub that held the magical entrance to Diagon Alley in its yard; that things were to be different. For one, her cousin, who had always held the backseat to attention in Primrose’s life, was famous. 

Ten years ago a war had been surging among wizards. Dark days, Hagrid had told the pair. Terrible, unspeakable things were happening; all lead by a dark wizard by the name of Voldemort. Anyone who defied him, he killed. Horribly. It hadn’t been long into the story before Primrose was wishing she hadn’t heard it; for one night, Voldemort turned up at the Potter’s cottage. There, he murdered James and Lily Potter, before turning his wand onto young Harry attempting to kill him too. But he had failed. The only person to have survived the killing curse, but Harry was left an orphan. The hopeful pictured Voldemort dead after that night... others knew better. 

That’s how Harry had came to be at the Dursley’s one Halloween night. And since then the boy had been a second thought. A burden to be carried alongside the pride of Primrose and Dudley. Despite the two acquiring a close bond - through the strangeness nonetheless - Primrose had grown accustom to Harry being in the shadows. Now, everywhere he went he drew attention; whenever someone got a glimpse at his scar, well they were shaking him arm out of its socket. Giving him well wishes and thanks among other things... all for an event he couldn’t even remember happening. And Primrose didn’t understand it an ounce. Though she tried to remain proud of the boy beside her. He had been her best friend through thick and thin. Now they were ascending a journey together, bonded again by the strangeness, but somehow Primrose felt further away from Harry than she’d ever felt. 

Sitting in the compartment on the Hogwarts Express, after an awkward goodbye with her parents, it was clear that Harry’s fame stretched much further than Primrose had contemplated. The pair sat listening closely to the red headed family who had helped them onto the platform barely fifteen minutes prior. The large family, four freckled, red headed boys and a young girl accompanied by their mother, had given Primrose better thoughts on wizard children; at least all of them weren’t like that blonde boy from Madam Malkins. 

“Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?” One of the twins asked, Primrose hadn’t caught their names when they’d helped Harry and her with their trunks. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaning back. “Know that black haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?” The mother replied with an air of feint excitement. Her apparent disdain for the topic hadn’t phased the boy, who carried on with a mirthful tone. 

“Harry Potter!” 

The little girls eyes lit up as did her smile, “Can I go on the train to see him? Please mum!” 

The mother replied, firmer now, the previous mirth almost non existent. “You’ve already seen him, Ginny. And the poor boy isn’t some animal you can goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?” 

“Asked him. Seen his scar, it’s really like lightning,” Fred replied baldly. At this Primrose glanced at Harry’s scar, a long bolt like gash over his forehead - she didn’t see what the big deal was, loads of people had scars. Even hers could give Harry’s a run for his money; it was infinitely a more interesting shape; a delicate swirling of white sprawled on the back of her left hand, the angles forming to give an impression of a sea bird in flight. She too had had it for as long as she could remember; born with it even. But hers hadn’t been caused by a killing curse, nor had it banished a dark wizard, like Harry’s had. Even so, Primrose couldn’t find an appreciation for Harry’s so called achievement; he had been a baby. How could anyone hold a baby accountable for their actions? 

At the sound of a shrill whistle Primrose tore her eyes from her hands and back to Harry, who had flushed entirely. A pang of sympathy rose for the boy; he never had appreciated being the centre of attention. Catching his eye, an encouraging smile was offered and returned with a similar grin. The train lurched into motion, gradually collecting speed as it rounded the corner away from platform 9 3/4. The sound of the compartment door opening, introduced the youngest of the red headed boys. Who went on to ask if he could have a seat in their compartment; everywhere else was full. Primrose shrugged indifferently, nodding towards the opposite bench. Where the boy, rather gratefully, took a seat before introducing himself as Ron Weasley. Barely a second after Ron had sat down the door slid open again, it was the twins. 

“Hey, Ron. We’re going down the middle of the train. Lee Jordan’s got a tarantula down there,” Fred grinned. An inaudible mumble of response from Ron and the boys had turned their attention to Harry and Primrose. They truly were identical, right down to their curving grins and a sense of omnipresent mischief. “Harry, did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley - and this is our brother Ron. Whats’s your name?” Fred asked, nodding respectively at each of his brothers before turning to Primrose. A prolonged moment of silence passed before Primrose registered the fact a wizard was asking her name. None of the ones she met of yet had actually bothered. 

She could do nothing for the beam of pleasure as she answered, “Primrose Dursley - Harry’s my cousin.” The latter added with a haste she instantly regretted. That was one thing Primrose certainly didn’t want - nor need - to be making friends from merits Harry himself couldn’t remember earning. 

The train gained speed as it flew through the countryside and away from London Station. It wasn’t long before the wide stretches of foliage were merging into thick forests of imposing pine trees. It seemed Primrose needn’t have worried about taking the backseat to Harry’s fame as Ron Weasley was just as interested in her as he was in Harry. Ron seemed bewitched with the idea of growing up in a muggle world, something Primrose was keen to describe to the boy. The three talked and ate weird sweets Harry had kindly purchased from a little trolley pushed by a plump, kind faced witch. The sweets were like nothing Primrose had eaten before: chocolate frogs that were bewitched to hop, given only for a short amount of time, oddly flavoured jelly beans that were true to their name of every flavour, chewing gum that chewed for longer than Primrose was willing to give patience too. Even the collectible cards were bewitched with pictures of famous witches and wizards that moved in their frames. 

“This is so cool,” Primrose muttered, more to herself than to either of the boys. “Can I keep this one, Harry?” 

“‘Course. I already have that one.” 

Primrose smiled gratefully, looking back at the card. The witch; the Druidess Cliodna; was no longer in the frame, but Primrose read the card eagerly, happy to be learning more about the wizarding world. Another prolonged look was given to the card, before it was slipped into her pocket; patting it pleasantly as if the card would disappear. 

The journey was a long one with plenty of disturbances from tearful round boys who’d lost their toads and bushy haired girls that didn’t seem to know the right time to shut up. And finally, much to Primrose’s dismay (she’d been hoping to avoid any sort of run in with this boy for as long as she could) the pale blonde boy from Madam Malkins. From the moment he entered, Primrose could do nothing for the curling of her lip - and it only curled more when he opened his mouth.

“Is it true?” He said with a long drawling sort of voice. “Everyone’s saying that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So, it’s you, is it?” The boy regarded Harry with a cool grey stare, ignoring both Primrose and Ron, who looked at one another with an arched brow that said ‘can you believe him?’ The boy was flanked on either side by two beefy boys that reminded Primrose a lot of Dudley. Though she was almost certain that these boys wouldn’t throw themselves into a tantrum of crocodile tears if not given their way. Their mean faces sang of aggressive assertiveness. The type Primrose certainly wasn’t going to test. The blonde boy, however, was runty compared to his gargoyle friends. Small in stature, sporting a dually round and pointed face whose cheeks were always rosy. He spoke like he’d never been told to shut up before. Primrose thought it was about time someone told him. 

“Yes,” Harry replied with the same cool tone. 

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” the boy went on carelessly, the goons were an obvious afterthought to him. “And I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” Ron sniggered at this, quickly covering it with a cough. Primrose resisted a roll of the eyes, he needed to practice how to hide his sniggers or else give them openly like she would. Rounding onto Ron with a cold stare of indignation. “Think my names funny do you? No need to ask who you are,” he went on, curling his lip in an oddly similar way to Primrose. “My father said that all the Weasley’s have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.” 

“Some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort, I can help you there.” 

An instantaneous scoff echoed. As if his head was mounted on a spring, Draco Malfoy snapped towards Primrose. “And who are you?” In no rush to reply, Primrose allowed her eyes to run over Malfoy. Making no attempt to mask the dislike; until she eventually set her eyes on his, suddenly satisfied that he was in fact, an idiot. 

“Primrose,” she said with a boldness that stopped the boy from asking any more questions. At least, that’s what Primrose would have liked to think, but it was only because Harry had replied to Malfoy’s rude remark with an insultingly cool retort. Malfoy’s rosy cheeks flushed a deep shade of cherry red. 

Narrowing his eyes until they were mere slits, Malfoy spoke through stiff lips, “I’d watch it if I were you, Potter. Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them either, keep hanging around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid it’ll rub off on you.” 

“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?!” Primrose demanded with a vehement tone that was drowned out by the scuffling of Harry and Ron as they burst from their seats, Ron daring Malfoy to say that again. The boys on either side of Malloy, Crabbe and Goyle, instantaneously buffed up their beefy chests. Squaring their shoulders as if they could assert dominance by there mere presence. It was laughable. Malfoy sneered, throwing his oily head back. “Going to fight me are you?” 

“If you don’t get out now,” Harry warned, in a tone that was much braver than Primrose thought he could muster. With a few jovial laughs the three horrible boys left, only to be replaced by the bushy haired loud mouth from earlier that day. Hermione Granger. She was certainly something. Not a something Primrose would get along with, but her dedication to the syllabus was admirable and something each of them had in common. Having read ahead on all of their school books, but Primrose supposed this was down to the fact they had both come from muggle families. Nevertheless, it was nice to know that someone in this world felt the same as she did. 

The thought that this girl was anything like herself was short lived when it came to boarding the little row boats that would lead the first years to Hogwarts. Amongst the excitement, Primrose hadn’t moved quick enough to the row boat that held Harry and Ron, thinking it was a given that she would sit with them. Hermione Granger, accompanied by the round toadless boy from earlier, didn’t share this thought, as she jumped at the chance to board the boat before Primrose, leaving her friendless on the shore. Primrose, alongside a few other stragglers, swept along the shoreline looking for a free seat. Upon finding one, Primrose clambered in alongside three other first years. 

“Everyone in?” Hagrid shouted, from a boat he occupied to himself due to his excessive size. “Forward!” And the boats surged into the body of water. The night was a dark one. Especially out on the lake where no lights, other than the small lanterns hanging from the rear of the boats, dared to penetrate the shadows. A simultaneous breath was held among the first years; as each of them braced for the first glimpse at their new home. Squinting against the dimness, Primrose leaned forward, eager to capture the first glimpse. Only to find it was done in vein as the boats began to follow the curve of the estuary into a much larger body of water, opening up into what could only be described as a colossal masterpiece.

Gasps of delight could be heard over the softness of the lakes flow. Hogwarts school was a castle. With turrets and towers the colour of sand. Pricked with the lights of a thousand windows - each of them pouring into the vast greenery of the magnificent grounds. The image of the castle looked like it could have been conjured from a story book. Primrose half expected unicorns to be roaming the schools grounds - because, well, why shouldn’t there be? From afar, Hogwarts was a vast palace of sand stone - closer you would discover the true beauty of the place. Primrose was in awe. Overwhelmed by its vastness, she was almost grateful when the boats disappeared under an archway of hanging ivy and beneath the castle. 

Once out of the boats, Primrose was glad to find Harry again, though she did have to search quite thoroughly and didn’t end up finding him until the first years were lead into a side room off the entrance hall by Professor McGonagall, a stern faced witch who had greeted them at the oak doors of the Hogwarts and introduced by Hagrid. The inside of Hogwarts, from what Primrose could see, was as magnificent as its exterior. Between the worry and excitement of what was to come, she barely had a moment to really look. There had been all but too much to take in. Now next to Harry, she squeezed his hand, searching for a way to know if this was all real.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall in a thick Scottish accent. “The start of term feast will begin shortly. But first you must be sorted into your houses; the sorting is a very important ceremony because, whilst you are here your house will be something of your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room.” 

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts your triumphs will be rewarded with house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whatever house becomes yours.” 

“The sporting ceremony will begin in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest, you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can whilst you are waiting.” At this Primrose’s stomach flipped, it was all very real now. There was a murmur of chatter as Professor McGonagall left the chamber. Primrose suddenly felt very pale as she listened to Harry and Ron discussing what the sorting ceremony might entail; of course their ideas were very far fetched and Primrose was almost certain they wouldn’t have to battle a mountain troll on their first day. Despite this logic, Primrose still felt very sick. 

A whirlwind of wonders flowed through Primrose’s mind as she followed the line of first years across the chamber and back out into the entry hall. The buzz of her mind only dulling when they were lead through a pair of double doors and into the most eloquent hall Primrose had ever seen. Four long tables ran the length of the hall, each decorated with coloured tapestries; green and silver, blue and bronze, yellow and black and finally, red and gold. Each table lined with students, their faces merging into blankness as Primrose tried in vein to take it all in. At first, it was hard to see if the hall had any ceiling at all and if it actually opened into the heavenly sky above them, the logical part of Primrose’s mind assured her it must have been some sort of charm. The bleak navy sky was adorned with the prickles of emerging stars, below them there must have been about a thousand candles just hovering there in midair, entrenching the hall in a heavenly glow. 

Slowing to a stop, the first years shuffled into a line alongside a raised podium. Stretching across the width of the hall were the teachers and staff of Hogwarts. Dressed in their peculiar robes, each looking as imposing as the next; Primrose instantly recognised the centre man, poised on a high back chair made up of velvet and gold ingrained wood; Professor Dumbledore. His similarity to the chocolate frog card was severely uncanny. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of her own robes, enclosing a hand around the card of Cliodna. The silky touch of the cardboard giving a small comfort and the sharp corner providing a helpful pinch that ensured Primrose that this was all very real. 

Silently, Professor McGonagall placed a small and rickety looking four legged stool on the podium, before placing a very old, dusty looking hat upon it. The hat was exactly the thing her mother would have writhed at the sight of, it took every ounce of Primrose’s concentration to also resist a cringe at the thought of how many germs were wriggling away on the garment. Like many of her thoughts, it was short lived, as the hat twitched and the brim opened and the hat began to sing. Luckily for the first years, that was the most remarkable thing about the sorting. The ceremony was much simpler than Harry or Ron had thought it would be; although Primrose hadn’t expected a singing hat, she thought this way was much more like the sorting she had in mind. Professor McGonagall stood by the hat, reading off names in alphabetical order; each student wobbled onto the stage, taking a seat on the stool before the old wizards hat was dropped over their heads for their houses to be announced seconds later. 

Not for the first time Primrose was silently thankful that her surname fell at the start of the alphabet. There was nothing quite as tedious as waiting. Soon enough, “Dursley, Primrose,” was called and Primrose, though her legs felt like lead, stepped onto the podium and took a seat. For a moment, the great hall was spread before her - the faces of Hogwarts students gaping up at her, their faces oddly blurred, and then they along with the Great Hall were gone, replaced by the dark innards of the Sorting Hat.


	4. Sorting of a Lifetime

September, 1991

“Oh-ho-ho-ho,” came the soft whispering of the hat. Primrose resisted a flinch, sitting up a little straighter, she held her chin high, hoping that she didn’t look as fearful as she felt. “Mmmhmm, very nice mind, I see. Sharp, concise, you know what you want and you know just how to get there... yes, undeniable strength in here and a lovely thirst to prove yourself... you’ll get there of course, that is if you make the right choices...” 

-

_For the second time since she had found out about her magical blood, Primrose was told that her future would be one filled with choices. The first being in Ollivanders: Makers of fine wands since 382 BC. It was a tiny place, Ollivanders, with a simple desk, spindly chair for bystanders and shelves upon shelves lined with boxes of wands. It had been what Primrose was looking forward to most, buying a wand. Now there, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end; prickling with an energy she couldn’t place._

_Drew from her thoughts by a soft voice, “Good afternoon,” it said, causing both her and Harry to jump and Hagrid to rise a little too quickly from the spindly chair. As if materialised from smoke, an old man was now standing before them; his large milky eyes regarding them with an insight Primrose wasn’t too comfortable with. The pair greeted him somewhat awkwardly, before sharing an expression of anxious awaiting._

_“Ah yes,” the man began, in his soft voice. It reminded Primrose of water running off paper, “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” Primrose didn’t need to question why Ollivander knew Harry, it was becoming clear that Harry was known wherever he went, whether he wanted to be or not. “You have your mothers eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.” He moved closer to Harry, “Your father on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches, pliable and a little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it, it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”_

_”And that’s where...” Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead. “I’m sorry to say I sold that wand... thirteen and a half inches, yew, very powerful wand. Very powerful, indeed and in the wrong hands... well if I knew what the wand was going out into the world to do...” Mr Ollivander left the sentence hanging with a strong tension. It was then the man regarded Primrose; his milky eyes shinning like new moons. She couldn’t help a swallow of anticipation, his stare certainly was insightful._

_“Well... this is a pleasure... I have heard things, but never did I conspire that I would be selling the wand...” Primrose could only blink in response. But it seemed that this was only a statement and Mr Ollivander did not require a response. He had turned back to Harry, taking a tape measure from his pocket before questioning which was his wand arm - to which Harry replied he was right handed._

_The tape measure flew blithely around Harry, measuring every angle possible, whilst Mr Ollivander explained wand lore. No two wands are the same, every Ollivander wand is made up of three cores, Phoenix feather, unicorn hair and dragon heartstring. Each wand is compliant to their chosen wizard and you would of course, never get such a good result with another wizards wand._

_“That will do,” Mr Ollivander said with a pointed look at the bewitched tape measure that dropped to the floor in an instant._

_By the fifth wand Harry tried, Primrose’s legs were like lead and she was beginning to get bored. Mr Ollivander, on the other hand, praised at having a tricky customer. Harry had accumulated a pile of useless wands on the spindly chair. Primrose was just working herself up to say something along the lines of ‘when will it be my turn’ when Ollivander offered Harry a peculiar wand. With a swift wave, a shower of sparks entrenched the shop, dazzling the occupants. Hagrid whooped and clapped, Primrose beamed with pride._

_“Curious... curious...” Mr Ollivander fixed Harry with that intense milky white stare. Before admitting that Harry’s wand had a brother. The brother wand belonging to none other than You-Know-Who, the dark wizard responsible for Harry’s scar and the death of his parents. It was an unpleasant thing to follow, but Primrose pushed aside the thoughts of the murderous dark wizard and allowed the tape measure to fold itself around her like it did Harry._

_“Give this a wave...,” Mr Ollivander trailed off, dipping his head, prompting Primrose to give her name. She complied, before taking the wand and giving it a small wave. Like, Harry there were many tries. With each try Primrose’s excitement would grow, a slow bubble building in her chest as she waited for the right wand._

_“I should have guessed you’d be a tricky customer, Primrose.” Mr Ollivander mused from the top of a ladder, as he reached to the top most shelf. “Yes, I haven’t met a witch like you in a long time... never have I sold them a wand, either.” For the second time that day Primrose could only blink in response._

_Another moment passed and Mr Ollivander was before her, holding a slim aubergine coloured box. The wand inside was a handsome dark oak colour with spindly vines carved into the length of it before finally flowing into a sleek curved handle. The bubble of excitement within Primrose’s chest burst, flowing into mild anticipation. “Cherry, dragon heart string, 10 and a 1/4 inches, pliable.”_

_A swift wave and a shower of glimmering pink sparks, Primrose was in awe._

_“Pink,” Harry chimed from somewhere behind her, “definitely yours.” Primrose shot him a sardonic look, grinning thinly._

_“Is this it?” Primrose asked Ollivander, immediately feeling moronic. Of course this was it. Ollivander was half way through an eager nod when a shivering of boxes above him startled the occupants of the store._

_“Well, well...” he murmured, making no move to assist the tumbling of wand boxes. “This is a strange occurrence,” Mr Ollivander mused, with no hint of dissatisfaction. A slim, satin wrapped box the colour of clotted cream skittered across the front desk._

_“Does this usually happen?” Primrose questioned meekly, still holding the handsome cherry wand. Mr Ollivander shook his head._

_“It seems you have been given a choice, Miss Primrose.” He gestured the empty box, Primrose carefully placed the wand back into the cushioned box. The wand in the clotted cream box was infinitely more handsome than the cherry wand beside it. Pale ivory in colour, dark Celtic runes ascending the length of the piece, flowing into a twisting handle carved with an intricate feather design._

_“A choice?” Primrose questioned, Mr Ollivander gave a twitch of his chin, hinting at the smallest of nods. “Suppose I should try this one then... it did try awful hard to get down here...” despite this admittance Primrose didn’t move. “What if I can’t decide?”_

_“I suppose that is the question with many of life’s choices. Something you will be presented with on more than one occasion.” Mr Ollivander’s voice seemed to soften, which Primrose didn’t think was possible._

_“I don’t understand,” Primrose admitted. Nevertheless, she plucked the wand from the satin folds; a strange and wonderful warmth washed over Primrose, like she had submerged into a hot body of water. Her fingers tingled, pulsing against the soft lines of the feather engravings._

_“Wow... this one, this is the wand,” she breathed, meeting Mr Ollivander’s gaze._

_“Vine, unicorn hair, 11 inches, springy. Yes, perfectly fitting. Fitting indeed. Though vines are not considered to be a tree. In the time of Druids, they were inclined to believe that anything with a wooden stem to be a tree. They are attracted to witches and wizards with undeniably strong minds with a vision beyond the ordinary.”_

_“Druids?”_

_“They are rare now, few and far between. From Celtic origins, they worshipped the ancient gods, before Christianity ruled the lands, you know. They claimed to be the voice of the gods, using their power to guide the high kings through the arts of divination and nature work.”_

_At a loss of what to say, Primrose only thanked Mr Ollivander. Placing the wand back into the safety of its box, Mr Ollivander wrapped it up in brown paper, and the trio were sent on their way. Back in the brightness of Diagon Alley, Primrose wondered at what did Ollivander mean when he said he’d not met a witch like her in a long time? Turning to enter the shop again, Primrose was met by darkened windows, like the gloomy lamps from indoors had been instantly snuffed out on their departure._

-

“Yes, that’s right. I know where I’ll put you,” the sorting hat whispered, before a bellow that almost made Primrose jump, “SLYTHERIN!” 

The hat was pulled from her head, she beamed despite the lack of applause from the students - only the Slytherin table was particularly pleased by their new addition. As she passed Harry and Ron on the way to the Slytherin table, Primrose resented the bashful feeling that rose within her, their polite smiles were a little too forced. She wondered if this was a sign of what was to come. 

The Slytherin table - decked with emerald green and shining silver - was crowded with a blur of faces, Primrose took a seat beside a mousy faced girl. They grinned at one another, saying nothing before both looking back towards the sorting. Soon there were a few more Slytherin’s added to the bunch, first was “Entehistle, Kevin,” who took a seat opposite Primrose and greeted her with a very toothy grin. Next, “Greengrass, Daphne,” a stout little witch with shoulder length, dark auburn hair. A chatty little thing who didn’t stop yapping in Primrose’s ear until the middle of the feast. Much to Primrose’s dismay, Malfoy was almost immediately decided a Slytherin. She supposed there was no getting away from the rudeness of this boy now. 

“Hey, how long was I up there for?” Primrose asked lowly, turning to the mousy girl beside her. Deciding it was for the best not to indulge in a further conversation with Daphne - the girl could chat for England, and Primrose was in no mood for a yap, she placed her interest in seeking out who she’d be sharing her house with. 

“Not long. Weren’t as quick as him, but quicker than most,” the girl said in a soft gratifying tone. 

“Good,” Primrose decided, “I’m Primrose, by the way,” she went on with an outstretched hand, which the girl gratefully took. 

“Brogue Burke,” the girl replied with one gracious shake. Like the shoe, Primrose thought, but did not voice as she knew the idea wouldn’t settle well with the stiff girl beside her. 

Whispers surged the hall at the call of Harry’s name. Primrose insisted on looking inconspicuous, it wouldn’t do her good to admit her relation to Harry on her very first day. The thought of being known as ‘Harry Potter’s cousin’ had a twisting serpent of jealousy writhing in her stomach. No. She couldn’t ride of his merits, she intended to make her own impression. Especially with the Slytjerins, as they were an imposing lot. Though she wasn’t certain if that was her judgment or the prejudices of those who had told her about the Slytherins. They were unpleasant, not a dark wizard who wasn’t in Slytherin, Hagrid had told her and Harry in Diagon Alley. Rather a Hufflepuff than a Slytherin. But here Primrose was sat amongst these wizards and she couldn’t help feeling a little lost without Harry, he’d been by her side since their magical journey had begun and she couldn’t help wishing that he too would be placed in Slytherin. 

It wasn’t a shock to Primrose when the hat declared Harry a Gryffindor. Though her heart was plummeting to her stomach, Primrose willed herself to clap politely and ignore the sneering from Malfoy across the table.

“What are you going to do now you’re lieutenants gone and got himself into Gryffindor?” Primrose ignored his drawling remarks, keeping her eyes fixed on the sorting. 

The sorting finally drew to a close with “Zabini, Blaise” taking a seat at the Slytherin table. At this Professor Dumbledore rose, offering the students a few choice of words. (“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”) Which Primrose couldn’t help, but snigger at - surely this man wasn’t for real, he was a crackpot. This thought like all the others was short lived, when the golden plates in front of her filled with food, her stomach growling pleasantly in response. So much choice, it was almost overwhelming. 

The Slytherin first years - around a dozen in all, including Primrose - took up an immediate conversation, swapping names and blood status like it was a profession. Primrose, however, was unusually silent as she took an immediate focus on shutting her stomach up; piling her plate of roast chicken, mash, vegetables, Yorkshire puddings and a pool of rich gravy; but underneath her hunger, she knew the real reason she was avoiding the conversation. After only a day at Hogwarts and just over a month of being a wizard, it was apparent that muggle borns weren’t always respected. Resolutely, the conversation had been moved to Primrose. It was only a matter of time, though she’d hoped to at least make it through the meal before having to admit her heritage. 

“So, who are you then?” Said a forward girl from across the table.

Primrose flicked her eyebrows sardonically. “Who, me?” The hard faced girl nodded; for a moment Primrose was reminded of Aunt Marge’s bull dogs. “Primrose.” 

“Not so mouthy now are you? Without Potter and Weaslebee backing you up,” Malfoy put in, his tone clipped with resentment. Primrose huffed a laugh, lazily raising her eyes to meet his leering gaze. 

“Put a sock in it, Malfoy. I don’t need anyone to back me up, let alone Harry,” Primrose bit back, with an equal amount of vehemence. Though Primrose held to each word, she knew it wasn’t entirely true. Growing up Harry and herself had dealt with their fair share of bullies, each giving their own heavy set opinion on where they should shove their heads. Primrose had a sharp enough tongue to hold her own, yet she’d never had too. Harry had always been there, by her side, shooting in his own sly remark. It was how they worked, how it had always worked. And now, Primrose sat at the Slytherin table alone, looking out over the Great Hall, stealing glances at Harry as he laughed with his new found friends in a house that he belonged. 

“What did you say your blood status was?” Came a voice from beside Primrose, it was the mousy haired girl, Brogue. Her head tilting quizzically.

“I didn’t,” Primrose said flatly, straightening in her seat a little. 

“Well, what blood are you?” Malfoy demanded incredulously. Without an immediate response to a heavily important question, the atmosphere grew tense. The hard faced girl from across the table narrowed her eyes, around them the first years turned, each fixing Primrose with a penetrating gaze. 

“Maybe she doesn’t want to say,” came a new voice from down the table, it was ‘Zabini, Blaise’. Snapping her head towards the sound of his voice, Primrose settled onto the first kind gaze she’d seen since the Hogwarts express. “Probably half and half, aren’t you?” He pushed, settling his coffee brown eyes onto hers, urging Primrose to drop the conversation and save herself the embarrassment. Pursing her lips, she made a decision she was sure to regret.

”Actually, no,” she replied mildly. 

“Well, what does that mean?” Replied Brogue, her tone raising a few octaves. The shrillness attracting yet more attention from the older years. 

“It means that I’m not half and half.” 

“You’re not a mudblood, are you?” Malfoy curled, his eyes looking like grey stones, hardened and cold. Primrose snuffed, unsure what a ‘mud blood’ was, but daring herself not to ask. 

“Both my parents are muggles.” It was as if she’d just admitted to having two heads, the choked gasps the accumulated from her peers was nerve wracking to say the least. Brogue went as far to shift away from Primrose as if she were riddled with a life threatening lergy. Even the kind eyed boy looked impassive at the thought. Primrose felt a familiar tension rise in her; the same hard exterior that kept the mean girls from Primary School at bay; a shell of a scowl and a venomous glare, a warning to say her sharp tongue was edging to lash out. 

That evening when the golden plates of the Great Hall were cleared and the students of Hogwarts were tucked in their dorms, their tummy’s warm and their heads full of fuzzy satisfaction; Primrose lay deflated. Unable to shift the feeling of rejection, she tossed and turned in what would have been a perfectly comfortable bed had she been even a little bit tired. Here she was in this spectacular school, joined by people just like her. A place she should have been accepted for the strangeness she’d grown to resent. It didn’t seem fair that the sorting hat would place her in a house that had an obvious hate for those born from muggles. It was barbaric; perhaps she could swap houses?

Sniffling into her pillows and pawing for the now familiar softness of the chocolate frog card, Primrose peered through the darkness, squinting into the face of Cliodna the Druidess. A solemn reminder that she belonged at this school. There was nothing these Slytherin’s could hiss that would elude her to that fact. The sorting hat had made an educated decision, and Primrose could respect that. For the reasons it listed were so engaging and logical that even she couldn’t disagree. Slytherin was where she belonged and it is where she would stay, no matter what her peers said. It was a comfort, at least, that it couldn’t get much worse than crying into her pillows on the first day of school. It was just unfortunate that she was sorely mistaken.


	5. Losing Patience

_October, 1991 -_

It didn’t take long for Primrose to fall into a routine at Hogwarts. Classes took up most of the days and just navigating the castle took up even more; seven floors and one hundred and forty two staircases would have been overwhelming for any mundane person. It was becoming ostensive to Primrose that you couldn’t just memorise your way around Hogwarts, the place was filled with secret entrances, walls that were doors, doors that were just walls and pretending. Trick steps and moving staircases, tapestries hiding entire stair wells and thousands of portraits that had a knack for striking up conversation when you were running late to class. And the ghosts, who were pleasant enough; easy to talk to with exquisite manners that would give even Primrose a run for her money and then there was Peeves. The horrid little poltergeist who insisted on making every students life a nightmare, he was certainly someone to avoid when you were in a rush.

One route Primrose had memorised, despite the odd movements of the castles interior, was the route to the library. The library had become a sanctuary to Primrose during the first six weeks of school. It was a place that allowed students to duck away from the rest of the castle and the prying eyes of Madam Pince the librarian meant that Primrose wasn’t likely to be bothered there. It also stayed open late, which meant Primrose could avoid the Slytherin common room; it was a cosy place and if things were different, a place she’d like to relax, but there was the problem of the other Slytherins. 

Primrose’s heritage was old news after the first week and the other first years didn’t bother her for the most part. It was still hard to watch them in their friend groups when Primrose didn’t have one. It was also hard knowing that her existence was pretty much ignored, though Brogue Burke never missed an opportunity to remind Primrose what she was. A mudblood. 

The word held no meaning to her, so the effect of the obvious rude remark was nonexistent. It was just decidedly easier to avoid Burke as much as possible. Despite holding favour with most of the teachers - something Primrose had secured within her first week - Burke had a similar charm; and had made it plain that she would have the upper hand if it ever came to a teachers favour. Primrose wasn’t one to fall for the trap of arrogance, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk of getting into trouble so soon into the school year. So, she stayed out of Burke’s way. The decision paid off eventually, as Burke got bored of teasing the Slytherin muggleborn by the time November had rolled around. 

When Primrose wasn’t biding her time in the library, or in the classroom learning all sorts of peculiar topics; she was wandering the castle looking for new places to read; the place was filled with interesting hideyholes that allowed Primrose to go undetected for hours at a time. Aside from that, there wasn’t much else to do. 

She’d had no time to speak to Harry - Slytherin and Gryffindors shared only one class - and he seemed happy enough with Ron. Never bothering to seek her out otherwise. She tried not to dwell on this too much, he was settling in. As she was. And Gryffindors and Slytherins never spoke to one another much, apart from biting comments in the corridors. The two houses had an ongoing feud that Primrose didn’t understand, but had come to accept. 

The first month of school was a trying time for Primrose. She’d taken to her lessons shockingly well, the extra reading had thankfully paid off and even the few practicals the first years were trusted with came with astonishing results for Primrose; she’d master the art of wand work quicker than the other Slytherins and with every praise and house point earned, Primrose would revel in the bitter faces of her peers. 

Even this small pleasure quickly became boring. It seemed every first year had a friend, even that useless Longbottom from Gryffindor had attached himself to some sorry bugger. And she had no one. There’d been times when she’d tried to seek Harry out, hoping for a chat or just a hug, but he seemed so content that Primrose didn’t want to disturb his peace. And some small part of her resented him for not coming to her. Surely he’d seen her sitting alone at mealtimes? Saw her brooding face when she was partnered with Malfoy in potions and he’d call her a rude name when Professor Snape’s back was turned? 

As the days began to shorten the grounds of Hogwarts became a rueful place; outdoor classes became a chore and students were forced to seek the warm sanctuary of their common rooms. The short days brought long nights of azure skies and bleak frosty mornings. The cold weather had never bothered Primrose before, back home it meant cosy nights in front of the fire joined by the family. The excitement of the looming holidays seeping its way through everyday life; it was a jovial time when you had loved ones to spend it with. But there was a severe lack of letters from home, the neighbours were beginning to notice the owl, Petunia, had wrote in their last correspondence, and without that small weekly joy; partnered with excessive homework and fitful sleep; Primrose’s positive regime was wearing thin.

It wasn’t until mid October that Primrose’s patience with Harry snapped. She was sick of making excuses for him and his ignorance. If he had wanted to spend time with her than he could well have done, but no, the best Primrose got was a measly wave across the entrance hall and a backhanded; and in Primrose’s opinion, flippant; invite to Hagrid’s hut for tea. She was inclined to believe that Harry had taken the rivalry between their houses as serious as any other Gryffindor.

On Thursdays Slytherins had flying lessons alongside Gryffindors, a class that was usually enjoyed by Primrose. She’d settled on to a broom just fine and was what Madam Hooch called a natural. Another compliment Primrose revelled in much to the dismay of her peers. But today she had no patience for the boastfulness of Gryffindors or Slytherins, for that matter. Especially after hearing Daphne Greengrass complaining loudly to her friends about Primrose’s fitful sleeping patterns. 

“Well, I couldn’t get a wink of sleep last night!” Daphne had moaned at breakfast that morning. “Not with her rattling the mattress every two seconds,” she added with a vehement nod down the table and towards Primrose. Setting Daphne with a stony look, Primrose snorted at her mockery. Twisting a wry smile at the auburn haired girl as she did. 

“Dry your eyes, Daphne, you slept later than all of us this morning.” 

With a scowl Daphne turned back to her friends muttering slightly as she did so. In no mood to stick around for an argument, Primrose left the Great Hall with a stony face and firm feet. 

The dull morning wore into an even worse afternoon; it was bitter weather for flying and Primrose felt nothing of her usual excitement for the class. The Gryffindors were as boisterous as usual and the sight of Harry only added fuel to a raging fire. Especially now that he was a firm favourite of Madam Hooch; always picked to demonstrate flying techniques, an unfair choice as Harry had no more experience than the rest of them. Then there was the rumour that he’d been gifted a broom two weeks ago. The memory of Malfoy bursting into the common room, gushing the news to anyone who’d listen was fresh in Primrose’s mind that afternoon. First years weren’t meant to have brooms, but Harry had one now and no less a week after breaking school rules in their first flying lesson. 

A heavy fog had set in over the Quidditch pitch forcing flying class to an early end as Madam Hooch predicted rain soon. Instructing the group to pack up their things and head off to the castle for a warm up before dinner. 

“Good work today, Potter. Well, I say this every time, but you are a natural flier, I’m amazed every time!” Madam Hooch had declared with a toothy grin, before disappearing into the broom shed and out of ear shot. 

“Surprised you’re not on the Nimbus, Potter? Thought you’d have that out every week rubbing everyone’s noses in it,” Malfoy said with a bitterness, Primrose couldn’t help but value at that moment. 

“Jealous are we, Malfoy?” Ron retorted, turning his lip up at the blonde. 

It was no odd occurrence, Malfoy and Weasley argued in most classes they shared. It was inevitable really, each of them shared a trait most eleven year old boys possessed; being insufferable mouthy gits. Primrose prided herself on staying out of it; she had no interest in sticking up for Gryffindors, especially those who’d turned against her the moment she’d been placed into Slytherin. And she certainly had no interest in involving herself in an argument led by Malfoy. That boy was insufferable. But that afternoon, flying cloak iced through with fog and absolutely no patience left, Primrose was prepared to have a go at anyone who bothered her. Unfortunately for Harry it was he who had indirectly pulled the short straw.

“Oh, everyone’s jealous of Prissy Potter and his broom skills, aren’t they?” Primrose burst in a sudden wave of vehemence. She couldn’t stand it anymore, Harry was stood no more than three feet from away and there hadn’t even been a greeting from him. 

“You’re on his side now?” Harry asked incredulously, nodding towards Malfoy. 

“‘Course not. I’m just pointing out the fact that your broom skills are as mediocre as anyone else’s,” Primrose decided firmly. Somewhere to the right someone sniggered, muttering in jest about Harry’s new nickname. Primrose managed a quick glance and was surprised to see Pansy Parkinson - the hard face Slytherin girl who shared her dorm - laughing. 

“Joking aren’t you? He’s got more talent than anyone in here!” Ron exploded, his ears turning pink - if it was from cold or anger no one could tell. 

“More like they feel sorry for him,” Malfoy cut in.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “What’s your problem, Prim?” Primrose only shrugged a shoulder in response. The argument was cut to a rueful end by the return of Madam Hooch. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for? Christmas? Get out of here, back to the castle with you,” she exclaimed in the same jovial manner, shooing the bundle of students back towards the castle. Primrose set Harry with a cold look before shoving by him, following the flow of students as they headed back towards the warmth. A mixture of guilt and triumph had settled in the pit of Primrose’s stomach. She couldn’t decide if she was pleased or disgusted that she’d sunk as low as Malfoy. 

The next day Primrose was no closer to deciding if she felt guilty for her outburst or not. But it had felt good to relieve the tension that had been building for weeks. And it felt even better knowing that Pansy Parkinson had found it funny. It meant that Primrose wasn’t a complete write off and maybe she could find a friend in Slytherin after all. Still, the choice of apologising was still undecided. Being no closer to deciding by breakfast, the thought was pushed from her mind all together. There was no use dwelling on what was done. If there came an opportunity to apologise and she was feeling kind, then she would. If not, well, Harry would just have to get over it. 

During potions class Friday morning Primrose avoided looking in Harry’s direction, which was easy enough as the class was a practical and Professor Snape had less patience than Primrose. Snape was an imposing man, who favoured a classroom beneath the castle in the depths of the dungeons. It was a depressing place; the oily walls flush with floating shelves that homed an abundance of jars filled with creepy looking ingredients that Primrose refused to learn the name off. Not only was the classroom depressing, Professor Snape managed to suck any posing joy from stewing potions. 

He wasn’t liked among the students of Hogwarts and it wasn’t at all surprising why. Professor Snape had a sharp tongue and sharper standards; there wasn’t a student to knowledge that could brew a potion to Snape’s exact satisfaction, no matter how hard they tried. Being raised by Petunia Dursley; Primrose was no stranger to high standards and respected Snape for his pressure of excellence. Another reason Snape had gained Primrose’s irrevocable respect was because of his dislike for Harry. Most teachers were drawn to the boy, as were the students; his fame spread wide and it was no shock that he was treated like a national treasure. By the second day of term, Primrose was sick of hearing about the _famous_ Harry Potter and how proud Gryffindor was to house him. The whole ordeal was rather well word, especially because Slytherin’s tended to be _least_ favoured among both teachers and houses. Professor Snape, however, being head of Slytherin house; liked Slytherins and by extension, he liked Primrose. 

Leaving potions class, she was left with a giddy feeling; it felt rather nice being favoured. Professor Snape congressed that she had a natural brewing technique, though Primrose wasn’t certain what he meant, she revelled in the compliment. Especially because compliments from Professor Snape were extremely rare, even for Slytherins. Giddy feeling combined with the scent of the weekend brewing overhead had a spring popping in Primrose’s step. She was looking forward to heading back to her dorm, curling down with a good book and maybe sneaking in a quick nap before dinner. Another restless night of sleep had Primrose feeling tireder than usual. Though she should have expected her unusual mirth to be short lived; once out of the potions corridor she had been flanked either side, by none other than Harry and Ron, who demanded answers for the previous days blow up.

“What was that about yesterday?” Harry demanded, annoyance evident in his tone. 

Grazing her bottom lip in an attempt to push away nerves and find an excuse, Primrose shrugged a shoulder. Fixing her gaze ahead, she shouldered her bag and carried on, leaving the pair to pick up their pace. 

Primrose was struck with an accusatory look from Ron, “don’t tell us your friends with that git,” he went on, when it was obvious Primrose was no closer to indulging them with why she had acted that way in the first place, Harry spoke again;

“You’re meant to be my friend, Prim. Whatever happened to us against them?” 

Resisting a grimace at the evident hurt in Harry’s voice, Primrose slowed her pace a little in an attempt to gather her thoughts. She wasn’t sorry for how she acted, but she also wasn’t prepared to tell Harry that she missed him. That she was sad they’d been housed separately and he’d wasted no time in replacing her with Ron. It had always been the two of them. Against Dudley and his gang, the mean girls at Primary School and all the other kids who had thought the two were strange. 

‘ _Us against them’_

It was that way for as long as Primrose could remember and now it wasn’t that way anymore. And for that she wasn’t sorry because Harry had done nothing to stop it from being that way. But now hearing Harry mention their pact; the balloon of brewing rage in Primrose’s chest fizzled before it came to an inevitable _pop._

“Friends?” She spat with more venom then intended, her lip curling as if she’d swallowed something bitter. “Please - humour me again, Harry. The pair of you have barely _looked_ at me since I was made a Slytherin.” The two boys shared a look that only a guilty conscious would wear. 

“That’s not how it is,” Harry spluttered, stumbling over his words. “We are your friends,” he repeated resolutely. 

The three of them had come to a natural stop in the corridor below the staircase leading out of the dungeons and up to the entrance hall. Primrose rounding on the pair with a fierce and perpetual scowl. 

“Please tell me your next joke, Harry,” Primrose begged, the words dripping with sarcastic intent, “you heard Ron on the train, anyway.” She went on with a vehement nod towards Ron, who swallowed hard under the stony gaze. 

“I only meant that Slytherin would be bad for me,” Ron mumbled feebly, passing another guilty look towards Harry. “Anyway, that doesn’t mean you had to call Harry in front of everyone.” His tone softened a little and Primrose was struck with the thought that maybe neither had meant to ignore her. The idea was short lived, as she remembered how lonely she’d been. There was no excuse for their behaviour, not in Primrose’s eyes. 

“Sorry that you feel like that, Prim, but it’s still no excuse to say what you said,” Harry decided with an affirmation Primrose would have admired if it wasn’t aimed at her. A quick glance at Ron, who was nodding eagerly, had Primrose’s anger feeling fresh again.

“Just leave me alone!” Primrose snapped brazenly, attracting a few looks from the first years who were still trailing up from potions class. Without sticking around to wait for the feeble excuses of Gryffindors, Primrose shoved past the pair as she stalked towards the Slytherin common room, seething with resentment for Harry. 

A brisk walk did little to subdue Primrose’s indignation. The bloody cheek of them to bombard her after class like that. And how dare Harry! Of course, Primrose wasn’t truly shocked, Harry always jumped at an opportunity to mount his high horse when it came to Primrose’s attitude. Shoving her book bag down with a little more force than necessary; Primrose slumped into a study chair, not far away from a cluster of leather sofas surrounding the fire-hearth, where Pansy Parkinson was sat amongst her friends. 

“Ooo, someone’s in a mood,” Daphne Greengrass teased in a songful tone. Primrose heaved a sigh, turning in her seat just in time to see Blaise Zabini digging an elbow into Daphne’s side, who yelped in surprise. They were all there, the group seemed inseparable; Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Millicent Bullstrode, Blaine Zabini and Theodore Nott. Sometimes, not often, they’d be joined by Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Though Primrose preferred when they weren’t, without Malfoy there they rarely bothered her. 

Blaise twisted a smirk, “saw you giving Potter and Weasley a telling off,” he said. Primrose, in no mood for niceties, shrugged a nonchalant shoulder - mildly shocked that Blaise Zabini was giving her the time of day, as he was known to keep to himself and his friends. And he certainly had no time reserved for the likes of Primrose or those willing to accept and associate with her kind.

“Deserved it,” she muttered flatly.

Blaise regarded her with kind eyes, his smirk pulling wider at the edges. “Yeah, well, if they bother you again send them my way will you.” At that Primrose’s hard to read expression faltered. It had taken no more than a week to master that expression, it was something she noticed a lot of Slytherin’s doing. A straight, perpetual gaze, that looked simultaneously calculating and innocent. She supposed it could be why the other houses found them intimidating; though Primrose suspected their resolute withdrawal from emotion was _because_ of the other houses dislike for Slytherin. 

Primrose cocked a quizzical eyebrow, “I can handle them fine myself.” 

“Oh, I know - I heard,” Blaise assured her, “I’d just like a reason to have a go at them myself.” He laughed then, a soft musical sound. Primrose sniggered and she couldn’t mask the fleeting grin that crossed her face. Now she was certain - she wasn’t a write off. There may be friends for her in Slytherin after all.


	6. All Brawn, No Brains

_November & December, 1991 _

Since her blow up at Harry that fretful Thursday morning, the pair hadn’t as much as looked at one another. Primrose hadn’t the slightest idea where she stood with Harry, or Ron for that matter. Whether she was grateful or not for that, she also didn’t know, though she was teetering towards the latter. No communication was worse than any communication, even the negative kind. It was like Harry had written her off. In another life, Primrose may have felt broken at the thought, but at that point she couldn’t blame him. Why would he want to be _friends_ with a stinking Slytherin, mudblood, who can’t even communicate efficiently? 

Halloween night had passed in a blur of events and when the morning rolled around, Harry Potter, was once again the talk of the school. Not for the first time, Harry had been caught breaking school rules, in a fashion that only a Gryffindor could execute. In that moment, Primrose realised _she_ didn’t want to be friends with an all brawn no brains Gryffindor. Before hearing anything about Harry’s shenanigans (the stories ridiculously jumbled as they travelled in a flurry like manner from mouth to mouth), Halloween had been a decent affair. 

Hogwarts was a magical place on Halloween. Back at home Halloween never extended past a jack-o-lantern left under the porch light and a few trick or treaters knocking at the door for sweets. Growing up, Mr and Mrs Dursley never encouraged much on Halloween either, the twins would dress up in the cutest matching costumes picked by their mother and the pair would traipse up and down Privet Drive collecting as many sweets a pillowcase could hold. Then all three children would stay up late; Primrose sharing her collection of treats with Harry, who was never permitted to trick or treat alongside the twins. 

Hogwarts was very different indeed; a thousand live black bats clustered the walls, some swooping down in smoky black clouds; freshly carved pumpkins with gaping mouthed and jagged eyes were placed at intervals along the noisy tables, the candles sputtering when the clouds of bats got too close. Suits of armour were charmed to sing a ghoulish tune, Primrose had never heard before and was left to presume it must be some popular wizards song, as a lot of students - including Fred and George Weasley - had been inclined to sing along during lunch time. The Weasley twins directed the chorus, singing loudly and rather out of tune, getting louder and louder; and only encouraged by Professor Dumbledore, who decided to conduct the singing with his wand. 

It was truly magical in every sense. The evening feast certainly was one to remember, much like the start of term banquet the food materialised atop the golden trays. Choices upon choices of meals, the scents of it all mingling together into a strangely pleasant aroma. The hall hummed with chatter and the scent of good times to come. In no mood to wait, Primrose dove right in, helping herself to a heaping of spaghetti bolognese that tasted - dare she say - better than her mothers. 

She was just taking a bite out of cheesy garlic bread when the doors burst open and in ran Professor Quirrell, his aubergine turban askew. The man hadn’t stopped giving Primrose the heebie-jeebies since they’d met in the Leaky Cauldron three months ago. He was a pathetic looking man, pasty on the verge of waxy, scrawny in every sense of the word; it was hard to believe that he’d been employed as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher; it was hard to imagine Quirrell not squealing at his own shadow. Never the less, he managed to get the hairs on the back of Primrose’s neck thrumming with energy. 

Professor Quirrell, a look of utter terror on his face, had made it to Professor Dumbledore’s chair where he declared, “there’s a troll, in the dungeon - thought you ought to know -“ before slumping down, as he fainted dead on the flagstoned floor. The garlic bread slipped from Primrose’s fingers, as the hall erupted in screams; students diving from their tables in a roar of panic. After several golden firecrackers erupted from the end of Professor Dumbledore’s wand the panic died down and he announced that prefects were to lead the pupils back to their dormitory’s. 

Among the noise of anxious chatter and scarpering feet, Primrose could barely hear her own thoughts as she was shoved along in the crowd of students flooding from the hall. Arching over her shoulders, trying to gain a look at the teachers table - wondering how the Professor’s were going to deal with a troll - she noticed Quirrell was no longer slumped on the flagstone. Caught in thought, Primrose had managed to catch the hem of someone’s robe under her foot. Whipping round, Blaise Zabini glared. Primrose curled her lip, only to see his glare had softened.

“Didn’t realise it was you,” he said by way of explanation. “What you dawdling for? Didn’t you hear there’s a troll in the dungeon!” He said with mock exuberance. 

“Yeah, and we’re still being led down there,” Primrose replied with the same sarcastic exuberance. Though the bitter edges to her tone were readable by everyone in earshot. Pansy Parkinson flashed a look of distaste over her shoulder - Primrose wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or not - until Pansy surprisingly agreed. 

“Typical, isn’t it?” 

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Blaise added blithely, tottering his feet so he came into step with Primrose. 

A flip of thrall erupted in the base of her stomach, only hoping the mirth wasn’t as obvious as it felt. 

“The favouritism is real.” Primrose went on with a heavy bitterness that managed to suspend in the air around them. Blaise’s kind eyes flashed mischievously, his smirk unmoving. Primrose wondered if there was ever a time that Blaise Zabini wasn’t smirking. 

“Noticed it too, have you?” 

The next mornings breakfast was an interesting affair. The Great Hall was alive and louder than usual with chatter, Primrose had expected that much from the previous nights event. What she hadn’t anticipated was the rumour flying from tongue to tongue. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had took the troll on themselves last night.

Primrose didn’t know if she should be mildly impressed, completely enraged, or terrified at the prospect that Harry could have died. After barely a moment of contemplation the decision to go with the latter was made; well, not so much a decision, but an overwhelming feeling that it was the right choice for the moment. That was until she saw Harry walking into breakfast, flanked by Ron and Hermione Granger, the bushy haired chatter box from the train. Before she had a moment to contemplate her movements, Primrose was up from her seat and stalking the length of the Great Hall. 

“Suppose you think you’re _really_ clever don’t you?” Primrose demanded in a clipped and overly zealous tone. Three perpetual frowns met Primrose’s. Granger’s floating into a surreal scowl at the sight of Primrose in the green and silver Slytherin attire. “What in the world were you thinking, Harry, you could have been killed!” 

Opening his mouth to answer, Harry was rudely cut off.

“He was thinking of me,” Granger cut in with her usual fervent tone. Taken aback, Primrose could do nothing for the dirty look exhibited on her narrow features. 

“Excuse me, I wasn’t talking to you,” Primrose spat, crossing her arms across her chest - presenting Granger with a look that dared her to argue. Granger only shifted under the gaze, glancing nervously at Harry and Ron, whose ears had turned pink. 

Ron, rosy with underlying rage, spoke up next, “you asked a question and she bloody answered, honestly, what’s your problem?” A slow exhale shot through Primrose’s nostrils as she steadied herself, vaguely aware of the full Great Hall behind her; thankfully, people were yet to notice the building tension and had no reason to listen in yet. 

“You’re both idiots risking yourselves for her. You could have been expelled, killed or anything. Morons, the both of you,” Primrose spat with the same fervent venom as before, shaking her head at Harry, she glared harshly. All the previous fear for him had disappeared and she had been left with blunt anger. 

“But I wasn’t,” Harry deadpanned finally, a little dumbfounded by Primrose’s sudden outburst. “Anyway, there’s not much need for you to worry. Since we aren’t friends anymore,” Harry went on, a little stiffly as if the words were forced. For a moment Primrose stood silently, her mouth moving as if she was chewing on her words. 

“Beat it, Potter. She doesn’t need you or your blood traitor friends,” came a voice from somewhere to Primrose’s right. It was Blaise Zabini, now beside Primrose. “Come on,” he said, nodding towards the oak doors of the Great Hall. With one last defeated glare towards Harry, Primrose left alongside Blaise, who gave her a small encouraging smile before stalking off to join his friends in the entrance hall. 

The small group of Slytherins stood off to the side of the entrance hall, waiting at the top of the dungeon stairs for Pansy; the only member of the group missing - Theodore Nott, a weedy and fair haired boy, the stout and chattery Daphne Greengrass and finally, Millicent Bullstrode, the stringy haired, introvert of the group - the three of them regarded Primrose with an identical stony look as she passed. 

“What you talking to her for?” Theodore demanded in his usual demeaning tone. Blaise shrugged a shoulder, greeting Pansy Parkinson with a nod as she joined the group at the top of the stairs. “Well?” 

“Wanted to give Potter a piece of my mind, didn’t I?” Theodore made a low sound of accord at the base of his throat, seemingly convinced. Though Daphne, never convinced with anything, cocked an eyebrow. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going soft on Dursley of all people, Blaise,” Daphne said, in her usual purring tone. 

Blaise scoffed, curling his lip as if the thought brought a bitter taste to his mouth, “don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, she’s a Slytherin, isn’t she? We look after our own, remember.” Daphne didn’t look convinced, neither did Pansy who had caught only the back end of the conversation. 

“We look after who looks after us, Blaise,” she corrected stiffly, “that doesn’t stretch to mudbloods-“ 

Blaise struck Pansy short with a narrowed glare, “it’s not like I’m inviting her to sit with us.” This seemed to appease the brooding lot, the subject dropping, like a fly after a meeting with a rolled newspaper. 

*

November rounded into December with a briskness Primrose didn’t know if she appreciated. November brought the looming damnation of the Christmas holidays and an abundance of unknowns with it. Thinking of returning home after Hogwarts was daunting enough and the thought of going back to Privet Drive alone was enough to send Primrose into shutdown. As Christmas approached; so did a prominent dullness in mood. A feeling Primrose couldn’t do much to shift. With every passing week it was becoming apparent that she was indeed a write off. Harry hadn’t spoke to her since their altercation in the Great Hall the morning after Halloween, not even to mention his honourable admission onto the Gryffindor quidditch team. 

She’d heard nothing from home, that at least wasn’t surprising; her mother had made that perfectly clear at the end of September. The owls were attracting far too much unwanted attention and Primrose was to avoid writing unless it was absolutely necessary. She’d managed to convince herself the decision wasn’t personal. But there was nothing to do for the bitter voice of disdain sounding from the depths of her mind; giving a well laid out reminder;

_‘They don’t want to hear about your time at school. They simply don’t care for their witch daughter and her freakish school life.’_

When that voice bit into Primrose’s conscience it was pushed away with remarkable precision. Tucked back and folded into a box, alongside all the other feelings Primrose didn’t want to deal with. It was the way of her mind and had been since Primary School when the mean girls began taunting her. The voice - sounding strangely like Petunia - was immediately replaced with one of Primrose’s conscience. Reminding herself that they were family. Family who loved her, who would _always_ love her... no matter what. 

And after hearing Blaise Zabini write off their - friendship? It wasn’t a friendship, but acquaintanceship - hurt more than Primrose would have liked to admit. So, she’d avoided him too. Pity wasn’t something she was accustom to and if she were going to find a friend in him she intended to earn it. Not have it given through forceful recognition that she was a Slytherin and ultimately on their side. 

The Christmas Holidays were fast approaching and Primrose was almost looking forward too it. She had every intention of returning home. For weeks there had been a small pip of homesickness in the base of her stomach and it was beginning to swell rapidly. As the waning days of November bore into December, the bitter feet of loneliness scraped it’s way onward and there wasn’t much for Primrose to do, but way until it arrived. Baring down on her with its vicious jaw, forcing her into submission. And she would give in. There wasn’t anything to do when loneliness got you in its clutches; especially with a severe lack of people to talk to about it. Primrose had even contemplated going down to Hagrid’s hut, but the idea had been scratched as fast as it came. Harry had probably fed Hagrid horrid stories of her by now and the worst part of it was that they’d all be true. 

With loneliness on her back and a solid increase of school work in readiness for the holidays, stress was beginning to build. Enhanced by the lack of sleep she’d been getting. Each night was the same; Primrose would turn in at a reasonable hour. Spending two hours tossing and turning, trying hard to stop the mattress springs from jangling as she did, lest another pillow be thrown from Daphne Greengrass. 

During the time between sleep and awake; Primrose was left with her thoughts. Thoughts that weren’t always kind. Alongside a feeling of worry, sprouted from no particular event, but it would worm its way from stomach to the softness of her chest. There it would curl, until sleep eventually occurred. Treating an overwrought mind with a kindness that never lasted long. Sleep brought dreams of a strangeness that was indecipherable - dreams that warped the mind, bringing restlessness and a ruthless headache come morning. 

It was remarkable how they felt so real, Primrose would be a bird - stretching her wings over the Oceans, swooping through the folds of the wind and dropping to the waters surface, feathers skimming the cool tips of the waves. And then it would shift and she was no longer a bird... instead, she’d be falling, shooting through the sky towards the Black Lake below. Just before breaking the surface she’d wake, sweaty and agitated. Breathing ragged with anxiety, hair stringy and damp to the forehead. Each morning was the same as the night. Primrose would wake, writhing and worried that she had somehow fallen from the sky and drowned. There she’d search for a comfort that couldn’t be found. So - she’d settle for the only chocolate frog card she owned. The surface, like silk under her fingertips, a firm reminder that the dreams weren’t real and she wasn’t falling... she never was. 

The morning after those dreams Primrose would wake with a soft thrumming in her head, like an onset of a headache, that would usually dispel by the end of first period. Without a doubt Daphne Greengrass would also mention the racket Primrose would make,

“Could you please, do us all a favour and learn a bloody silencing charm, honestly!”

Primrose would only roll her eyes, knowing fine well that her movements never truly affected Daphne’s sleep because Primrose would be awake from four am most mornings when any hint of sleep had been chased ruefully away by nightmares. 

*

The evening before the train departed for Kings Cross Station, Primrose had thought of seeking Harry out, to enquire about his holiday plans. She assumed he’d be staying, but would have liked to know for certain... and maybe clear the air a little too. It was where Primrose least expected to see Harry that she found him, hanging around outside of the library and he was shockingly alone. At the sight of him, Primrose stopped in her tracks breathing in the sight. A tug of grief foamed in her stomach, it had been an age since Primrose had seen Harry alone and not in the face of an altercation too. For a few moments she stood, mouth opening and closing until she could build up the courage to say something. Harry hadn’t seen her yet, he was stood with his back pressed against the wall watching the doorway of the library. 

“Harry,” Primrose called, bringing herself from her thoughts. Harry jumped, snapping his head towards her. 

“Prim, you scared me.” Primrose was glad to see he didn’t look angry, mildly aggravated, but not angry and that was a relief. Mumbling a brief apology, she moved closer until the gaping gap between the two was suitably engulfed. “What’re you doing here?” 

Primrose shrugged, “I always come here.” 

“I mean, the night before the holidays... I expected you to be packing.” His words held a tone of uneasiness that had Primrose’s stomach curling into a tight knot. Tension thrummed between the pair, a feeling neither were accustom too. Where conversation used to be a flow of banter and laughter, there was now painful pauses and foreboding. And there was nothing Primrose could do to diffuse the feeling that it was all her doing. Why had she allowed jealousy to get the best of her? The only friend she’d ever known was now too uneasy to carry a real conversation. 

She shrugged. 

“It’s all done... so... you’re not..?” Primrose let the question hang. Harry shook his head. “Thought not... I wish you were.” Primrose admitted with guilty hope that he may just change his mind. She’d never had a Christmas without Harry before and the thought made her tense with worry. What would it be like this year? Just her, Mum, Dad and Dudley? Would they treat her like a freak? Would they pretend she’d never been away? 

Harry blinked slowly, his emerald eyes settling with a look of distinct pity. 

Chewing his words slightly, “I- I’m sorry, if I - made you feel like -“ Harry stumbled over the words in a nervous attempt to form an apology. “Well, I don’t know really.” The half formed smile on Primrose lips dropped, slipping instantaneously into the perpetual frown that seemed to be all she wore these days. 

“Right, well, if you don’t know what you’re sorry for, I’m not about to tell you,” she said in a brisk fervent tone. Harry, slightly abashed, stared blankly. 

“I haven’t actually done anything, Prim...” The door of the library sprang open, a draft washing over the pair of wizards. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Ron Weasley said, twisting a grim sort of smile at Primrose. 

“See you next year then, Harry,” Primrose muttered stiffly. In no mood to argue, she pushed her way past Ron and Hermione who were lingering in the doorway of the library. 

*

Primrose had imagined many ways her home coming would go. The thoughts of her parents arguing had crossed her mind more times than she’d like to admit. Like a dam gate opened, the terrible memories of summer flood back. There was more yelling than she cared to remember, such cruel words exchanged and of course, she was the topic of all their discussions. It was so important that Primrose attended Hogwarts, Petunia had made that clear on many occasion. Vernon, however, would have none of it. Until one morning when he was oddly compliant, like he no longer cared whether Primrose stayed or left. The thought of her fathers indifference made a home in her mind as Primrose found herself back in Kings Cross Station, this time very alone. 

Only four months prior she had stood between platforms nine and ten, Harry at her side as they concurred about where platform nine and three quarters actually was. How times had changed, how she had changed... Now back on the platform, she was nervous to see her family again. The turmoil of indifference bloomed ahead. Primrose had never cared for outcomes she couldn’t predict. Being unknown to her families current thoughts of her were more of a struggling than Primrose cared to admit. She hadn’t changed... not really.

She was still Primrose, after all. The same girl they’d always known; the one who loved football above all else and read until the deep night swung over her head and the lull of sleep convinced her to put the book down. Strawberry ice cream was still the go to dessert for every meal and every day she felt less than herself. The urge to dance ballet tickled at her feet. All the bits that made Primrose, Primrose, were there. They’d never left. Nothing had really changed... even the magic, it had always been there. If only they could see that. 

Sitting in the terminal, Primrose had a lot of time to think about how their reunion would go because her parents had yet to show up. Passengers rushed about her, parents bustling children, men in preened suits holding briefcases, galloped with a spring in their step as they rushed to catch their trains, groups of teens returning from University; each existing with a gleam in their eye as they pictured returning to their families. Primrose wished she shared their excitement. 

When the sky began to take a bleak turn of darkness, Primrose made a move to the pay phones hung in intervals along an opposite wall. The numbers of the house phone were strange on her fingertips, but tender and familiar too. She dialled with ease, bringing the plastic handheld to her ear. Each burr of the line adding to the tension in her stomach. Three rings and the voice of Petunia Dursley sounded over the line. 

“Mum?” It was like someone had stuffed cotton wool in her mouth, the word came through muffled with vulnerability.

A moment of silence and Petunia, seeming to get over her shock, replied, “Primmy? Where are you calling from? What’s wrong?” 

“I’m at Kings Cross Station, you were meant to pick me up.” Primrose couldn’t keep the emotion from her voice as she spoke, the realisation that her parents had forgotten her ignited a painful lump in her chest. 

“That was today?” Petunia replied in her usual shrill tone. There was a break in the line, Primrose listened to the muffled voices of her parents, acutely aware that the time on the pay phone was ticking short. 

“Mum,” she said, “Mum!” The voice of her mother came back, frantic with worry, gushing apologies and assuring Primrose that they were getting in the car right now. “No, it’s fine - there’s a train to Surrey due soon... I have some birthday money left, I’ll just buy a ticket...” Without hesitation, Primrose slung the phone back onto its hook.

By the time she’d made it to Little Whinging, Primrose was sorely sick of trains and infinitely glad she wouldn’t have to see another until the new year. Seeming to be the least of Primrose’s problems now that she stood on the driveway of number four Privet Drive. Her old home now stark against the navy skyline, an imposing silhouette that only brought a flush of new worries. A deep exhale, that could have been a shiver, Primrose made her way to the front door.


	7. Christmas, 1991

The Christmas holidays were abysmal. Her father was indeed indifferent to her return, as was Dudley who did everything his father did. The only person who seemed at all bothered that Primrose was there was her mother; who pampered Primrose any chance she got, though Primrose was certain the behaviour was born from guilt. Nevertheless, Primrose went on as if nothing had changed. It was good to be home, good to be back in her own bed, even if she felt an odd homesickness for the castle dungeons in the depths of Hogwarts. 

When Christmas Day came around Primrose was shocked that she too, had a pile of presents. Last year and every year prior, it would have been a given; Primrose would receive everything on her list and more. Though she wasn’t certain there’d be any use for a laptop at Hogwarts, Primrose was eternally grateful and showed her gratitude by resorting to old habits of being the perfect child. There would be no mention of school, no whisper of Harry Potter and certainly, under no circumstances, would Primrose indulge the fact that she had been practicing magic for the last four months. But no matter how hard she tried to push that fact away, it was like an elephant in the room; large and imposing; as if the words ‘little witch’ were scrawled across her forehead.

The nervous glances never went amiss, though they were courteously ignored. As were the whispers from Dudley, even when they spiked holes in Primrose’s heart. In another life, a sharp retort would have bitten back, now she shadows cradled her in an attempt to look unthreatening. 

The day before the Hogwarts Express was due at platform 9 and 3/4; Primrose lounged in her bedroom, embracing the last of the comforts she’d surely miss once she returned to school. If only she could pack it all up and take it to her dorm. Though she wasn’t sure what the other girls would make of an abundance of football and dance trophies, or a laptop for that matter. 

Hell, they hadn’t even known what medication was. Millicent Bullstrode’s face was a picture when Primrose’s pill bottle rolled across the dormitory one morning. The thought was almost laughable, they were so entitled; the pure bloods; but they knew nothing. Not really. Nothing of the muggle way of life, well Primrose would be shocked if they had indoor plumbing! The image of Brogue Burke shuffling into an outhouse was almost enough to have Primrose laughing in her bed. 

A soft knock sounded, a small smile of permission and Petunia hesitantly entered. Slipping easily into the room and raising a tray of tea and biscuits as a peace offering. Settling on the edge of the bedspread, Petunia settled the tray onto the ottoman before pushing a hot mug into Primrose’s hands. 

“Are you excited to go back?” A habit had been formed not long after Primrose’s return from school; all conversations about that side of life would be saved until Vernon and Dudley were out of earshot. With every conversation the feeling of insincerity would grow. There was no real interest, just mild courtesy and the feeling that a mother should know about her child’s schooling, at least a little bit. Like all belittling and intrusive thoughts, Primrose forced them to the backend of her mind. There was absolutely no patience for pitying the relationship with her mother - at the end of the day, she was the only one who cared at this point. 

When asked Petunia had made it plain that she thought no different of Primrose now. It was obvious to her daughter that it was a lie; Primrose could see the tension in Petunia’s shoulders and feel the stiffness of her words, like steel on a chalkboard. It was the sort of reserved coldness that had Primrose answering in the briefest ways possible, even when she longed to talk about the extravagance of her new life. How Hogwarts was a legendary place, where magic hung in the air and Primrose was free to be who she was. It was the place of fantasies and dreams come true... Hogwarts had become a second home to Primrose, a place she longed to share with her mother, but couldn’t because of a fear she didn’t really understand. 

“Suppose so. I’m looking forward to getting my mock exam marks back. I think I did very well in potions, Professor Snape seems to like me.” It was a reserved answer, Primrose had made sure of it. Then why had Petunia looked so... so... well, bloody appalled? The look lasted for only a moment, until Petunia blinked, wispy lashes fluttering as she attempted a brisk gathering of spiralling thoughts. 

“Professor Snape?” Petunia asked with a furtive flatness Primrose wasn’t familiar with. Hesitantly, Primrose nodded. “He’s your teacher?” Petunia’s voice had rose a few octaves now. 

With the same iron stiffness, Primrose replied, “yes, why?” Shuffling up on the bedspread, straightening her back with all the haughty indignation of a Slytherin. 

It had been years since Petunia had heard that name and it still brought the same chill to her spine as it did all those years ago. Surely, it wasn’t the same boy... but it wouldn’t be so out of place if it was. He was like them, after all, a wizard. He’d been the one to introduce Petunia to that world, he’d told Lily what she was long before a letter from Hogwarts had fluttered into the kitchen window one morning and turned their worlds upside down. He’d gotten his freakish little hands on Lily and he’d taken her away, filling her head with nonsense about Petunia. She wasn’t good enough for her now, she was a muggle... devil knows what that meant! And now, after all these years, he’d come for her daughter... it couldn’t happen again, Petunia wouldn’t allow it - not after he’d stole Lily from her. The thoughts remained on the tip of her tongue - until they were firmly shook away. 

“Nothing sweetums, I’m sure you’ll get the highest marks in class.” 

Primrose, appeased at this, curled into her mothers side tucking her feet beneath her bottom, snuggling deep into an embrace Petunia had dearly missed. The pair sat that way for a while, braced against the sage, suede headboard, Petunia brushing over Primrose’s hair, all the while silently drafting a well worded letter to that crackpot headmaster. Severus Snape was not to teach her daughter anymore.

*


	8. Vivid Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primrose struggles with her powers and makes a friend along the way.

_The first wash of Spring pushed the colourless Winter away, casting a rush of pastel shade over the grounds of Hogwarts. It seemed the castle, along with its inhabitants, adopted a new lease of life alongside the changing of the seasons. The new growth brought fresh flowers and a sticky, but cool breeze through the corridors. Summer tempted at the tips of Spring; promising warmer days and a pending break. The new sun was certainly welcomed, even if its warmth wasn’t promised._

_Primrose had heard of seasonal depression before, only briefly from a pamphlet in the doctors office; she had never expected to relate to such a topic, but here she was feeling a touch uplifted from Springs bold entrance. Finally, the mornings weren’t so frosty and the halls weren’t so cold. Cotton tights and dragon hide gloves could be switched for crochet lace, spring dresses and chunky knit cardi’s. A small change in a wide scope of uneasy bearings, but Primrose welcomed it._

_There wasn’t much else to be chuffed about these days. The Easter holidays were about as much fun as the Christmas ones; even at Hogwarts, where most pupils stayed during Easter; Primrose didn’t have much to do. Especially with the extra homework the teachers had courteously piled on in anticipation of the end of year exams. At least the warmer weather meant a venture into the grounds was no longer a chore._

_The Black Lake was certainly a place for studying, or just to read, or sit. There was something splendid about venturing into the grounds during the early morning dew; escaping fitful rest and the dysfunction of everyday routine and feast on nature through a naked eye. The sun grazing the horizon, before pushing itself up and over - pouring down, igniting every surface with lustrous gold. Slipping unsteadily on the overgrowth, Primrose trudged down the hillside intending to take the long way to the lake. By the time she reached its shores the sun will have slipped its way over head pouring, like liquid gold across the slender surface._

_A soft fog had settled, not particularly unusual for the supple mid end of April. This didn’t deter the girl as she trudged onwards through the grounds, the chilly breeze prickling the base of her neck with gentle kisses. Head raised, embracing the light that painted her in ethereal gold; there was life in that morning. A soft life, filled with pastel hues, one that brought an uplift to the most endearing souls; especially Primrose. It was the happiest she’d felt in a long time. It was natures way, of course; the gentle embrace and Primrose welcomed it._

_But it was a dream._

_How hadn’t she noticed that yet?_

_They all began this way, a warm walk, a soft fog and a feeling of gentle relaxation, like she was slowly being dipped into a pool of warm water. The fog should have been the first give away. Always there - casting its thin silver glow. A vivd veil between reality and the dream world. But she was there, it was all too real. There was Hogwarts, slung in its protruding glory, doors agape welcoming Primrose in. So, she went. Stepping into the entrance hall - empty and forthcoming. Accept, it wasn’t. A figure of a thin weary looking man, draped in a cloak too big, so that it hung over his face excluding all indicators of life. But Primrose knew immediately who he was. There wasn’t anyone who walked as tentatively as -_

_“Professor Quirrell? Are you alright?” Primrose’s voice came with the dull vapour that all dreams cast. Like, cotton wool pressed over a speaker on the telephone. Thinner than he was at the beginning of the year, pastier too, Professor Quirrell was draped in all black. Dressed to blend in with the night that had blessed the grounds only hours prior. He was floating across the hall, robes brushing the flagstone floors, unaware that his presence had been disturbed by the silhouette of a dream girl. As always, he twitched. On edge - awaiting to be caught._

_“Are you alright?” Primrose repeated in vein, reaching out a small hand towards the man. Even his head was covered with his cloak, which also seemed to be done in vein, as there wasn’t a day that Quirrell wasn’t seen without that turban twirled round his skull. A strangled gasp was all Primrose could manage when Quirrell raised his head - dark eyes darting with fearful indignation. His skin was translucent against his skull, dark circles pulling at beady eyes. Strangest of all, was the silver glimmer of liquid splashed down the front of his robes. An abomination of nature._

_Horror left its fingertips along Primrose’s arms; pulling goosebumps as it went. The blood - as she realised it was now - caught the morning light, glimmering maliciously. A dead scream burst at Primrose’s lips, silent and breathless._

And then she woke, sweating and thrashing to an alarm whirring on the nightstand. It was time for school. 

Morning pulled along with dull ferocity. Classes took concentration that just wasn’t present that day. Even though the dream had faded hours ago, Primrose could still feel the choking scream at the base of her throat. The tense contraction of her chest as it repelled what she saw. Simultaneously vivid and vague, the dream rattled at her brain, fogging her eyes and pulling her mind into the deepest of thoughts. 

She was living in a bubble of fog, unable to function accordingly. Fingers numb and tingling as they gripped at a quill that kept falling. The soft chatter of the classroom was a distant call; life flowed around her, blissfully unaware that Primrose was drowning in fog. She’d seen drowning in the movies; someone’s head bobbed below the waves, until they struggled and broke the surface, thrashing and sputtering for oxygen that was too far a reach. Primrose was drowning. And it was nothing like the theatrical thrashing of the movies; all noise and attention; this was a silent ordeal. The fog clogged her brain, bound her hands and controlled her mind. Until the surface was broken by the voice of Professor Snape. 

“Am I speaking another language, girl? Answer the question.” Slytherin’s snickered in response, whilst Gryffindors glanced nervously at the girl who seemed absent beyond repair. Until she slowly blinked, pupils wide and dark stretching over the kaleidoscopic colouring. Primrose was back on earth now, head pounding as the fog cleared and the classroom came into focus once again. A pink tinge rose to colourless cheeks, instantaneously plunging Primrose into hot water. Two dozen eyes clocked her, some dancing with mirth, others just perilous with pity. Straightening in her chair, Primrose rose her gaze to meet those of Professor Snape; who leered down at her from across the desk. 

“I’m sorry, Professor. Could you repeat the question?” A hopeful tinge flooded her brittle voice. The ability to ignore Malfoy, who was shaking with laughter, beside her was shrinking. Until Professor Snape dutifully repeated the question slower than usual, as if Primrose had lost the ability to think at all. How she hadn’t immediately lost house points, Primrose didn’t know. Perhaps Snape did have favourites after all because he was not a teacher known to repeat himself, especially to pupils who obviously hadn’t been listening. Nevertheless, Primrose answered the question correctly and Snape moved on with the lesson. 

A breath of relief escaped as Primrose relaxed in her stool. Tears burned the back of her eyes, from pain or sheer embarrassment it was hard to tell. The hazy breath of the daydreaming fog taunted her, slowly blurring her vision once again. Each time it did a headache assaulted her mercilessly, pounding with every breath. And then she was back on earth again - and then back into the fog - and in the classroom, stirring a potion she didn’t know she’d began to make. 

“Did I make this?” Primrose muttered, more to herself than to anyone else and especially not to Malfoy, the potions partner she’d been assigned to. 

“Obviously - what’s wrong with you, Dursley?” Phrased like a question, but it clearly needed no answer as Malfoy only glared viciously before turning back to his own potion. 

“I - Professor?” Primrose shot her hand into the air, unable to carry on with the lesson. By the time Snape regarded her, she was positively pale and the fog was threatening to take her once again. “I don’t -“ cut off by a dramatic shriek from Malfoy, Primrose drew a hand to her nose where the boy was pointing. 

“Ergh - don’t get any of that mud blood on me!” He yelled, shifting away in case he too became infected with muggle born blood. Gaining a chorus of sniggers from a couple of his Slytherin cronies, along with a synchronisation of strangled gasps from others; including Daphne Greengrass, which would have shocked Primrose if it wasn’t for the blood pouring from her nose. Promptly scolding him, Professor Snape regarded Primrose before handing her a box of tissues from the front desk.

A nosebleed. It had been a long while since one of them had occurred. Even so, the memory of them were haunting. Primrose grappled for the tissues, throwing them towards her nose. But the blood kept coming, soaking the hems of her robes, staining her hands with red wine colour.

“Hospital wing, Dursley.” The command was a curt one, and Primrose could do nothing, but nod silently. “Drink this - blood replenishing draught. Parkinson will accompany you - Parkinson!” Snape pointed swiftly from Pansy to Primrose, before handing Primrose a small glass vial filled with an odd coloured potion, which she grappled with before chugging quickly. It was foul and bitter, but she refused a face of disgust. 

Out in the corridor, the blood had ceased to flow, but the stains were there. Clogging up her airways. Primrose was acutely aware of how she must look. Like a massacre victim probably. Pansy Parkinson trailed behind, juggling the pairs bookbags as she struggled to fasten her own leather satchel.

“Wait up will you!” She called before stomping after Primrose and up the stairs towards the entrance hall. Thankfully the corridors were cool with the same spring breeze that had been felt in Primrose’s dreams. “Merlin’s beard -“ Pansy gasped as she finally fell into step with Primrose. 

“Just go back to class,” Primrose snapped, snatching her book bag from Pansy’s brittle grasp. Clearly taken aback, Pansy chewed on her words for a moment before composing herself and scoffing lightly. 

“And what if you die on the way up there, huh? Don’t think I’m getting in trouble for that,” Pansy concurred with a purse of thin pink lips. Primrose snuffed her comment with a glare of her own. It wasn’t like she disliked Pansy Parkinson - actually Primrose would have quite liked her, if it wasn’t for Pansy’s clear dismissal of Muggle Borns. Parkinson had once made a promising friend for Primrose, back at the start of the year; but the feeling had dwindled away when Primrose realised she wouldn’t be finding any friends among the Slytherins. “You look bloody awful, by the way.” 

A look of disbelief settled over Primrose, one she didn’t care to hide. “What do you expect? I’m bleeding out!” Primrose hadn’t expected Pansy too laugh. It was a high, spellbinding thing that started with her eyes and ended with her head thrown backwards. One that would have had a small smile gathering at the corners of Primrose’s mouth, if it wasn’t for the headache that was currently knocking her sideways. 

Primrose hadn’t been to the hospital wing before. Typically, a sterile place. White washed with wide birth windows, bathing the cots in a fluorescent light. Shelves lined the walls each holding essentials for the cot below - gauzes, bandages, basic pain killing potions and gels, and some strange looking contraptions, Primrose didn’t dare ask their use. 

Madame Pomfrey the Ward Matron, bustled over upon seeing the girls enter. If she was taken aback by the sight of Primrose’s blood covered robes and stained face, she certainly didn’t show it. Though, she had probably seen a lot worse - especially with a school sport such as Quidditch. 

“She’s had a nose bleed,” Pansy declared what would have been blatantly obvious, “a bad one.” 

“So it seems. Come sit down, girl. What’s your name?” Primrose dutifully provided her name, before admitting that nose bleeds weren’t such an odd occurrence in her life. Pansy took a seat by the cot, watching as Madame Pomfrey conjured a basin of warm water and a large bowl of fluffy cotton balls. 

“Professor Snape gave her a blood replenishing draught too,” Pansy stated in the same orotund tone Primrose was used to hearing across every classroom, common room and dorm room - no one could escape Pansy’s loud tone when she started yapping. Madame Pomfrey grunted something about Professor Snape sticking to his job role. The girls fell into a giggle. 

“Yes, yes, very funny, ladies. Now, how do you feel, Primrose?” As if on cue, Primrose paled once again, before suddenly shaking her head. 

“Sick - very - sick-“ she gasped suddenly as a wretch took control of her voice box. Solidly prepared for events as such, Madame Pomfrey shoved a sick pan beneath Primrose’s face, providing gentle rubs of the back as the girl vomited. Coughing and spluttering, Primrose shook her head choking on words she desperately wanted to say. 

The fog. It was the fogs fault, surely. 

She hadn’t felt well all day. Waking up with a headache that never quite left, fingers tingling and spine jittery with dream energy. 

“Is she okay?” Pansy asked, her chin buried ceremoniously into her chest, plainly disgusted by the vomiting. 

“Of course she’ll be okay. You can go back to class, unless Primrose wants you to stay,” Madame Pomfrey said, before looking onto Primrose who only shook her head and wafted a hand at Pansy. As if vomiting at school wasn’t embarrassing enough, having Pansy Parkinson watch you was ten times worse. Pansy took the nudge to leave, left her well wishes in Primrose’s hands and departed. 

Shivering back onto the bed, Primrose struggled to catch her breath. “Something happened in class,” she admitted. Before searching for the words that could describe the absence she’d felt that morning. Madame Pomfrey was a good listener. “It was horrible. It’s like I haven’t been here all morning... just my body not - not my head.” A listener was all Madame Pomfrey was, as she didn’t provide Primrose any clarity on her feelings, only that she should have came to the hospital wing earlier. 

“How did the potion that Professor Snape gave you feel?” 

Primrose shrugged, “Fine, I guess. I haven’t been taking my medicine since I started Hogwarts though...” she admitted quietly, taking a sudden interest in the bedspread. Initially, the idea to stop taking the tablets was a good one. They didn’t do anything other than make her tired anyway. The first chance Primrose had got to stop them pills, she’d taken; especially when the bottle had rolled to the middle of her dormitory one morning. The looks from them girls was enough for Primrose to bury them in the bottom of her bag and never look back. Did wizards not take medication? Like many thoughts, it was a stupid one - wizards had potions for these things, of course. Perhaps that’s why the medicine never had the intended effect on Primrose. They certainly didn’t calm her nerves or stop headaches. They helped sleep alright, a little too well. 

Madame Pomfrey seemed positively intrigued with the medicine, taking at least five minutes to read the packaging and then examine the pills inside. “Codswallop!” She declared finally. “Good job you stopped taking these, Missy. Muggles don’t have a clue when it comes to _real_ healing. They’d have no effect on you anyway, being a witch. What were you taking all these for anyway?” 

Shifting slightly, Primrose avoided Madame Pomfrey’s penetrating gaze once again, before she swallowed her pride and indulged the matron in her medical history. “I can’t really remember having nose bleeds, I’ve been on medicine as long as I can remember. Apparently they help with reducing anxiety, bringing me back to reality and keeping my sleep in a resolute pattern,” Primrose reeled off in a modulated fashion, there’d been too many times she had heard the recount of her _illnesses._

Madame Pomfrey mused for a second, humming through closed lips, before dropping the medicine into the pocket of her crisp white robes. “How are you in classes, Primrose?” For a second, Primrose could only blink, unsure what her class work had to do with nose bleeds and headaches. This was it. Her illnesses would bring her suspension from this magnificent school. Even freaks like her couldn’t fit in among wizards. “Are you working well with your wand? Doesn’t hurt to do any magic, does it?” 

Primrose only shook her head. “I’m top of most my classes, actually,” she said pridefully. “And I’m almost always the first to pick up wand work.” 

“Very well done. I only ask because sometimes young witches and wizards can block out their magic and that can cause some problems if not addressed. Seems this medicine has been doing the same to you; it explains how sometimes you have a _‘fuzzy brain’._ The only thing that concerns me is you’ve seemed to embrace your magic just fine now, so these side effects shouldn’t be occurring.” Madame Pomfrey paused for a moment studying Primrose. “Of course, this could be a one time thing...” Madame Pomfrey offered more to herself than to Primrose, who only shook her head as a way of reply. “No?” 

“There’s something wrong,” Primrose murmured. How she hadn’t thought so prior to this moment was beyond her. Of course there was something wrong. All those sleepless nights. Headaches that never quite went away. And then this morning the dream that felt ever so real that triggered the episode of absence. If only her mother had elaborated what made Primrose so different to Harry... different to everyone else in Hogwarts. With the ease of a true doctor, Madame Pomfrey settled Primrose. Advising rest and fluids before she was allowed to leave. Sinking into the unicorn hair pillow case, Primrose allowed her eyes to close. She didn’t wish for sleep... only rest. 

*

It seemed Primrose’s turn for the worst that morning in potions hadn’t only attracted the attention of Pansy Parkinson; who had kindly left Primrose a chocolate frog on her bed that evening, a gesture that had the girl bubbling with gratitude; but Harry, who purposely sought Primrose out for the first time since they’d started Hogwarts almost nine months prior. Like most days, Harry was flanked by Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who both looked like they’d rather be anywhere, but sat at Primrose’s table in the library. 

“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” Harry said pleasantly. He had been the only one to take a seat. The other two placed themselves at each of his shoulders, as if expecting a burst of trouble. Which wouldn’t be too badly anticipated. Primrose decidedly ignored them, meeting Harry’s apprehensive gaze with a peculiar one of her own. She shrugged. Wondering why it had taken a very public nose bleed to get Harry to even speak to her. “Been a while since you’ve had one, hasn’t it?” Stiffly, Primrose straightened in her seat, but she nodded. 

“Are you alright then? You haven’t looked well this week.” 

Primrose huffed a humourless laugh, “thanks for noticing. But I’m fine.” How shockingly easy lies were told. Primrose was not fine. She hadn’t been fine for nine months. Even without headaches, nosebleeds and fuzzy moments, her time at Hogwarts had been, well crap, to put it bluntly. Harry had no idea; as he flounced around with his new friends and made a name for himself on the Quidditch pitch and as a slayer of trolls. Primrose didn’t know when she gave up on the idea of having Harry as a friend again, but it only took a small moment of kindness for her to miss him again. 

“Do you want to study with us? Hermione’s made revision time tables for us... not that you’ll need them, you’re doing great in classes. Aren’t you?” Although, Harry’s effort to make conversation was plainly overzealous, a small smile tugged at Primrose’s lips. Even the swift elbow in the shoulder given by Ron to Harry didn’t put Primrose off. She nodded. A tiny thing - one that she hadn’t put much thought into, it had materialised of its own accord. The other two Gryffindor’s begrudgingly took seats on either side of Harry and began pulling out their study materials. 

A warm Spring afternoon peaked through the window warming the table of first years as they took notes. There wasn’t much talking; well not where Primrose was concerned. It seemed she’d forgotten how to talk to Harry all together. Or rather, she didn’t know how to when he was in the company of his friends. Alas, company was welcomed. Even if it was in the form of bushy haired Hermione Granger and Ron, who would have made a good friend if it hadn’t been for the circumstances. 

“Hagrid! What are you doing in the library?” Ron exclaimed in a sudden burst of movement, that had the three of them jumping. 

Looking very oversized in the stuffy library, Hagrid shuffled from between two bookcases; shoving something behind his back as he did. Barely visible behind a bushy beard beady, black eyes creased with a nervous smile. 

“Jus’ lookin’,” he decided, in a tone that spoke of lies. 

The three Gryffindors were intrigued at once, sharing a look of raised eyebrows and small smirks. Primrose suddenly felt very out of place. “An’ what are you lot up ter? Not still looking for Nicholas Flamel, are yeh?” 

Suddenly, plunged into a conversation she shouldn’t be hearing; rather, something the Gryffindors didn’t want her hearing. Their looks were mangled in a way of wide eyes and pointed stares. To which Hagrid, who obviously hadn’t realised Primrose’s presence before, bid her a swift hello. 

“Oh, we found out who he was ages ago. _And_ we know what that dogs hiding, its the philosopher sto-“ Suddenly Ron was cut off with a series of shushes. Primrose suddenly felt very on edge, not to mention awkward. Apparently Ron lacked the ability to read the room too. A swift look of apprehension came from Harry. Setting her jaw, Primrose matched Harry’s pointed stare with one of her own, immediately Harry backed down, turning back to Hagrid. 

“There’s a few things we wanted to ask you actually.” 

“Listen - come an’ see me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’t s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh -“ another very swift look towards Primrose and Harry bid Hagrid a goodbye. Clearly the invite did not stretch to her.

“What are you three up too?” Primrose demanded at once. No immediate answer came, but an air of tension had settled over the table. “Well?” 

“It’s nothing, Prim. Really,” Harry lied. 

Pursing her lips Primrose sighed heavily and began collecting her things. “Obviously you three are up to no good... I’m particularly shocked at you, Granger. Who knew you had it in you.” Again there was no answer, only three pairs of very guilty looking eyes. “Well, whatever it is, I hope you all get caught and expelled.”


End file.
